


Living With the Inevitable

by tinkertoysdamn



Series: The Inevitable [4]
Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Canon Het Relationship, Child Abuse, Developing Relationship, F/M, Falling In Love, Father-Daughter Relationship, M/M, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2017-12-07 16:47:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 50,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinkertoysdamn/pseuds/tinkertoysdamn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beta'd by firebirdofthenight.  Answer to a Les Miserables Kink Meme prompt.  Valjean and Javert have parted, but now the rest of their lives must begin.  Valjean faces the challenges of fatherhood, while Javert must start over in the city of Paris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Escape

He scrambled down from the roof, jumping onto the hard stone below. His knees creaked in protest; he was not a young man anymore. Thankfully, no one wandered the poorly lit streets and Jean Valjean took off into the night.

The last time he had been on the run he had been pursued by disinterested parole officers who did not care about an angry thief. Now it was different, he was the quarry of a man so devoted to his duty that he would break any bonds to see it through.

Oh Javert, he was the only thing that Valjean regretted about telling the truth. Valjean could lose the acclaim, the respect of the town, the wealth he had gained, but to see the hurt in his mate’s eyes was too much. He knew that he had not lost Javert’s love, but that the Inspector would have to squelch it, bury it deep inside if he was to serve the law.

Valjean’s esteem for Javert was a recent development. During Javert’s tenure as Chief Inspector, Madeleine’s town had become safer, a place many were glad to claim as their own. Where Madeleine had brought prosperity, Javert had brought order. The two of them did not always agree on a course of action, but Madeleine had been pleasantly surprised that Javert was so passionate about his work. They had grown close in a way that he could not have imagined, and although he wished that the heat had not happened, Valjean did not regret that they had formed a bond.

In Toulon their relationship had been very different. 24601 had harbored no illusions about why he had wanted Javert; Javert belonged to him. Javert was submissive, he was aggressive; it was the natural order of things. The guard had bent to his will when commanded and it had stirred a dark desire deep within 24601’s heart. He had longed for the day that Javert’s heat would come, when the proud man’s carefully guarded control would slip and he would come crawling to 24601 begging for his cock. He had known one day that he would fuck Javert. It did not matter that Javert had loathed him, feared him; he was 24601’s and he would submit. 

It made Valjean shudder to think of the beast he once was. Javert had been right to be afraid, and Valjean was ashamed to think that he had once harbored such thoughts about a man he adored. Now it was all a moot point. Valjean knew that he could not be together with Javert in this world, but now that he had confessed and cleansed his soul they could be reunited in the next.

In Heaven there would be no worries about biology, about station in life, there would just be peace and each other. Until then, Valjean had made a vow to Fantine to take care of her daughter. He had spent his life making promises he could not keep; he was determined to fulfill at least one before he died.

Even in the dark, Valjean could find his way home. He scaled the fence, not an easy task for an old man, and his muscles would be in agony for days. The housekeeper had left his key in its usual spot; Valjean silently praised her loyalty. He crept into the house, up to his rooms where he proceeded to get himself ready. He knew that he did not have much time. Once Javert discovered that he had escaped, the man would be on him like a bloodhound.

Valjean wrapped up a pair of precious silver candlesticks, a reminder of the power of human kindness and mercy, and scribbled a quick note to his banker. As he was finishing, he noticed a strange presence in the doorway. He spun to face it, instantly on his guard.

It was his housekeeper, her face white as a sheet. “Oh, Monsieur!” There were tears in her eyes; her fealty had not been swayed by his recent infamy. “I thought you were—“

“I was,” Valjean explained. “I must move quickly, there are men after me.”

“Right,” his housekeeper said. “Sister Simplice is here, she will want to see you.”

Valjean was puzzled. “Why?”

“She came to pray for you.”

Valjean was touched by the gesture. Sister Simplice had been one of the nuns who had nursed Fantine during her illness. The woman’s devotion to her charge had become a fondness that was unexpected by both. Valjean knew she would not take Fantine’s passing well.

As he was contemplating this, the nun appeared in the doorway. She trembled, her wizened hand upon the portal. “Monsieur le Maire!”

He bowed his head in deference. “Thank you for your prayers, Sister.”

“Will you come to see Fantine? Her body is still at the hospital,” Sister Simplice asked.

Valjean knew he would regret it, but logic dictated that he ignore the fancies of his heart. “As much as I wish to, I have no time.”

A loud knock at the door testified to the truth of his statement. The housekeeper crossed herself and went to answer the door. Sister Simplice extinguished all the candles but one and knelt beside the former mayor’s bed. Valjean stowed away in a dark corner, biding his time.

They could hear the sound of the door opening below. The murmur of voices floated up to them. “There has been no one up there all night,” the housekeeper said.

“Then why is there a light upstairs?”

Javert, of course it would be Javert. Valjean tried to still his breathing, keep as quiet as possible. He could only hope that their bond would not lead the Inspector straight to him. There was the sound of footsteps approaching; was Valjean free only to be recaptured a few hours later?

“Excuse me,” Javert called into the room.

Sister Simplice raised her head from her prayers.

“Has anyone been in this room?” Javert asked.

Valjean held his breath. The Sister was well known for her honesty, she had never told a lie, until now.

“No,” she answered. 

Satisfied with the answer, Javert bowed and took his leave. Valjean sighed; God bless the man for his unwavering respect for authority. He prayed to God to forgive the Sister for her minor transgression for it was the in the service of a greater good. Once he was certain that the law had gone, Valjean finished his preparations. He gave the Sister money for Fantine’s burial and for the care of the poor of M. sur M. It was his last official act as mayor.

He quit his house for the last time, never to return. Valjean made one quick detour to his factory, to fetch some discarded clothes as a disguise, and then stole off into the night. He walked for hours, occasionally hitching hides on carts or carriages, making his way slowly but surely.

Valjean had a destination in mind, but he had to be canny if he was to avoid capture. Javert was no fool and he expected the man to be close behind him. The fugitive made a brief stop in Paris to withdraw some funds and then went back on the road. On the fourth day of his flight, Valjean found himself on the outskirts of Montfermeil. He had purchased a few digging tools in the previous town, Valjean did not want to be seen in Montfermeil just yet.

When night fell he crept into the woods to fulfill one last task. He knew that Javert was close behind him but this step was crucial. Valjean raised a lantern to battle the dark and journeyed through the thick copse of trees. Along the way he encountered a lone road repairman, a convict he recognized from Toulon. Damn. He wasn’t certain that the other man had recognized him, but Valjean was certain that he would be followed. 

He took great care to be quiet and to occasionally extinguish his light. Valjean’s diligence was well founded. As he scurried behind a tree, he could hear the repairman stumbling and cursing in the bramble. He waited until the sound of footsteps faded away and began his quest again.

Valjean needed a spot that was recognizable, but not too distinct. There was no point in hiding his burden if another found it. Finally, he discovered a tree that had been repaired with a band of zinc, and a pile of stones. He found a patch of earth to his liking and began to work.

Valjean had worked hard all his life and had never shied from physical labor. Even so, by the time he was finished he was sweating and streaked with dirt. He sat down on the ground and rested for a moment, satisfied that his bundle was well hidden. His treasure was not merely money, but a future for himself and Cosette. 

He hid the tools deep in the brush and set out for the road again. Valjean was slow and tired from the exertion of work but he knew that time was running out. As he saw the break in the trees and the beginnings of a road he discovered he was right. He lifted his lantern to guide his way and there at the edge of the light was a figure; it was Javert. “Are you alone?” Valjean asked.

“Of course not,” the Inspector answered. The starlight gave the man an almost ethereal presence like an avenging angel, but his voice was soft. “Are you going to come quietly?”

Valjean nodded; his task was done and he could face his destiny. Javert approached him, cautious but not frightened. He placed the cuffs on Valjean’s wrists just as before but now he stared into Valjean’s eyes, indecision clear on his face. 

Valjean parted his lips to ask a question when he felt Javert press a kiss to the opening mouth. It was quick and impulsive, but Valjean’s heart quickened all the same. He closed his eyes, fighting the demon of temptation. “Don’t Javert, or I won’t want you to stop,” he pleaded.

Javert leaned his forehead against Valjean’s. He could feel the younger man shaking. “Damn you,” he whispered. 

“I’m sorry.” It was all that Valjean could say. He leaned back and touched Javert’s brow with his lips. He was certain this would be their last kiss. 

“What did you hope to accomplish,” Javert asked, getting back to business, “disappearing for four days?”

Valjean’s answer was a single word: “Enough.”

\----

The trial was a farce. The defense was almost nonexistent and the District Attorney, who had been denied his chance to orate at Champmathieu’s trial, made the most of his current opportunity. Valjean remained silent throughout, refusing to testify on his own behalf.

Javert was there, of course. To everyone else he was the picture of respectability and control, but Valjean knew that the man was tormented. Javert would sneak glances at him every once and while, though Valjean knew he was trying not to; the Inspector’s hand would twitch as if he wanted to clasp Valjean’s fingers and when he spoke it was mechanically and without passion. 

The man did his duty and for that his conscience would rest easy. Valjean did not begrudge him, they were both bound by masters beyond themselves, Javert to the Law, Valjean to God. He wished that he could hold his mate, reassure him that all would be well, but he knew that if given the opportunity he would never let go. 

The verdict was penal servitude for life, his service as Mayor of M. sur M. had commuted the sentence from the death penalty. Valjean was reassured that this was God’s work. He knew that there would be some sort of escape from the galleys; that God had tested him with Champmathieu and he had passed. Valjean was not Job to be tried and tried again to prove his faith. His soul was safe and he believed that God was not cruel enough to make him spend the remainder of his days as a slave.

As the months dragged on from his trial to his reintroduction to the prison life, Valjean found that his certainty was not as absolute as he would have wished. He starved, he suffered, although he had not again experienced the sting of the lash, he nonetheless found himself faltering. Was it once again being in an environment that had so thoroughly crushed his spirit before? Was it being treated like an animal after knowing the respect and joys of being a free man? Was it Javert? 

Two seasons passed, the weather become warm and sweet, then cool again. Valjean labored, now known as 9430, in the galleys, under the sweltering sun and the freezing rain. Then one day his work unit was transferred to a port town and there a ship came in, the mighty _Orion._

This behemoth of a fighter was in need of repair. As the ship came into port, a man on the rigging fell. Valjean begged to save the man’s life, not concerned for his own. When the chain parted from his leg he took off like a shot. He was familiar with ships, having worked on them for a significant portion of his life. Though Valjean was no sailor, he could make his way through the ropes with considerable skill.

How he reached the man in time to save him was something Valjean could only attribute to Providence. 

What happened next, he would also later ascribe as God’s will. The sailor was safe, but Valjean was not. He slipped and fell, down into the dark water below. It was a baptism in the sea, a blessing to start afresh. Valjean would not reappear on the surface for the authorities and the rubberneckers to see. He would emerge as a man without a name, without a proscribed destiny. He would emerge as a man with a single promise, a single vow to fulfill. 

Late that night, huddling in the bow of an abandoned ship, Valjean grinned. He had been right to trust in the Divine; that God had provided the escape he needed. As the sounds of the crowd dispersed, he knew that no one would bother searching for him any longer. 

Jean Valjean was dead.

\----

Javert sat in the station, warming himself before the stove. His eyes were fixated on the newspaper in front of him. It was a short article, only a few paragraphs long, but it had his full attention. Valjean was dead; he didn’t believe it. The moment his father died his mother had clutched her head and shrieked like she was being murdered. The bond had severed so completely that she was in physical pain for weeks; she would cry violently for a while, stop for a few hours and then burst into tears again. According to the article, the accident had happened the day before, yet Javert had felt nothing.

Absolutely nothing had changed. He was not inconsolable; he was not suffering. Javert knew that he was considered cold by many, but he doubted that he would be unaffected by the death of the man he loved. Besides, he questioned the idea of something as paltry as the sea killing a man like Valjean, but how to bring up his concerns with the Prefecture?

“Um, Inspector?” 

Javert ignored the man; Poulin was a competent officer, whatever it was he could take care of it himself.

“Inspector.”

Another silence. 

“Inspector Javert!” Damn Poulin, could the man not see that he was busy? 

“What?” Javert snapped.

His fellow officer pointed toward Javert’s rear end. “Your coat is on fire.”


	2. Thenardier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by firebirdofthenight

It is said that there are individuals, who when left to their own devices do not amount to much but when paired with others of similar terrible dispositions they become monstrous. Alone, one might be a petty thief or just disagreeable and antisocial, together they can rip apart the very fabric of society. This phenomenon has been noted often in modern times: the Lonely Hearts Killers, Bonnie and Clyde, the Wests of Britain, etc. 

The Thenardiers were one such couple. On their own they lacked the necessary strength and bile to do real damage, but united they were terrors to behold. When Fantine had the misfortune of entrusting these two with the care of her daughter, they were still at a point early enough in their careers that they had yet to unleash their full fury. 

Using funds purloined from the dead of the battle of Waterloo, Monsieur Thenardier opened an inn, an attempt at a respectable business by less than respectable people. Although M. Thenardier was an expert at extorting money from others, he was less than capable of keeping it for himself; as such, his family had run up considerable debts. When funds are scarce, it can bring out the worst in people and Cosette, their innocent charge, bore the brunt of their violence.

M. Thenardier left the day-to-day care of the child in his wife’s hands and Madame took full advantage. She saw Cosette less as a ward and more as a slave. Mme. Thenardier never hit the child with the full force of her strength, to do so would have broken the girl and made her useless for work. Instead, the Mistress of the House would pinch the child and taunt her with cruel words. The Madame knew that a well-timed remark could be just an effective a weapon as a blow with a fist. 

That is not to say that Mme. and M. Thenardier did not know how to care for children; they did have several of their own. The girls, Eponine the elder and Azelma the younger, were two little princesses in their parents’ eyes, although the sons were far less fortunate. 

The Thenardier household was also unusual in that the couple was married and mated, but could not bond. Both Monsieur and Madame were of submissive biologies but despite this they managed a strange functional relationship. Neither had the desire to submit to an aggressive and both were content to bully and needle each other. Occasionally, Madame’s more romantic tendencies would emerge and she would alternately praise or lament their relationship depending on her mood, but M. Thenardier was willing to put up with it. He knew he would never find a better partner or accomplice than his own wife. On occasion one or the other would stray, but, as long as they brought back money or goods and the saucy details, forgiveness was easy to buy. 

Once Fantine died and her contributions to Cosette’s welfare ceased to arrive, the child’s treatment became worse and worse. She wore only wooden shoes and a threadbare dress even in the dead of winter. Her skin was pale and livid with small bruises; the girl’s eyes wore a permanent weariness born of fear and pain. If things did not change, Cosette would never live to see adulthood. 

\----

He was being transferred to Paris. A year ago it would have been a dream come true, but for Javert it was now a bittersweet moment. He had hoped that when this moment came he would have convinced Madeleine to come with him, to share a new life, but now it was impossible. He would miss Poulin and Lambert; when Javert had left Toulon he had left behind only mere acquaintances. Poulin and Lambert were colleagues, perhaps even friends. 

Javert entertained the wild notion of requesting their transfer as well, but knew that such an action was foolish insubordination. Still, he wished that they would watch his back on the streets of Paris, but he had to trust them with M. sur M. instead. The atmosphere of the place had become more hostile since Madeleine’s arrest and Javert knew that the other men had their work cut out for them.

On the day of his departure, the two other officers came to see him off. 

“Don’t let your head get too swollen, Javert,” Poulin said.

“As long as it does not surpass yours I shall live,” Javert retorted. He swung himself up onto his horse’s back. 

“And don’t forget to write,” Lambert said.

This gave Javert pause; he had never had cause to write anyone a letter of correspondence before. He wondered if he would be up to the challenge. Javert’s lip curved into the semblance of a smile. “Then I’d better be receiving a wedding invitation in the next few months, Lambert.” 

Lambert flushed a bright red and Poulin gave the other officer a friendly punch to the shoulder. Yes, Javert would miss these men and the brief happiness he had known in M. sur M. But Paris and all her challenges awaited him and Javert was looking forward to it. 

\----

It was Christmas Eve, a time of joy and anticipation for most children, but for Cosette, it was just another day. The night had descended and the waterman had closed up shop for the evening. Cosette dreaded the dark; it held shadows and terrors that could not be explained aloud. And though her fear was palpable and obvious to anyone who saw her, Mme. Thenardier still insisted on sending her out. The inn needed water, and what did the Mistress of the House care if her little slave cried herself to sleep at night? Mme. Thenardier’s own daughters were far too precious to throw out into the cold and the work would damage their sweet tiny hands. 

Cosette stumbled out onto the road, carrying a bucket that was bigger than she. The journey from the inn to the stream was only a quarter of an hour, but to a child afraid, it was an eternity. 

\----

Valjean had been on the run for over a month by the time he made his way back to Montfermeil. He had excavated the treasure he had buried in the woods, thankful that it had remained undisturbed all these months. He already had a home set up for himself in Paris, now all he had to do was retrieve the girl.

The moon was high that night, so navigating through the woods was easier than expected. Valjean hoped to make good time and reach the inn at a reasonable hour. He could stay there the night and take Cosette away with him in the morning. 

As he traipsed through the trees, he heard the soft sounds of a child. Concerned, Valjean followed the cries to the edge of a stream. It was a wisp of a child struggling with a bucket full of water. Valjean stepped closer to get a better look. 

The girl was heartbreakingly thin. Her blonde hair was stringy and dirty, held down with a filthy bonnet. Her dress was inappropriate for the weather and she shivered with the cold. Valjean’s pity pierced his heart. He moved silently toward her and picked up the bucket from her trembling hands. “Where do you live child?” he asked her.

The girl’s eyes widened with surprise. “I live at the inn.” She was startled, but not afraid.

He gestured for her to go in front of him and the girl led the way up the road.

“What is your name?” Valjean asked.

She answered in a voice as small as her stature, “Cosette.”

A righteous fury boiled in his veins. How dare they? How dare these innkeepers take Fantine’s money and claim to care for the child? A good woman, a loving woman had willingly degraded herself, secure in the knowledge that her daughter was safe. He had sent his own money to pay Fantine’s debts, to bring the child to her side and these people had the audacity to ask for more when they treated Cosette so abominably? None of this turmoil showed on his face, he would present only kindness to this girl who had known so little. 

To be honest, Jean Valjean was not prepared to be a father. When Javert had gone into heat he had been terrified that there would be a child, but the Inspector had been one step ahead of him and had taken medication to prevent such an occurrence. The two of them could have ill-afforded a child considering their positions and the secrecy of their relationship. 

Raising Cosette would be a different matter; Valjean was no longer Mayor Madeleine and to the rest of the world, Jean Valjean was dead. He and Cosette would start afresh; create something new together. The fact that he had no idea what he was doing was only a minor deterrent. 

The inn was a shabby affair, and though Valjean had initially decided to stay the night there and play Father Noel to little Cosette, he determined that an immediate evacuation from the premises would be more to her benefit. 

As they approached, the innkeeper and his wife greeted them at the door. “Where have you been?” the woman shrieked. She was thin, her hair artfully disheveled and her dress a monstrosity of patchwork. Her husband, taller than her by at least half a foot, wore a uniform indicative of service under the Emperor. The former mayor found himself unimpressed with both. 

Valjean raised the bucket of water. “I found this girl wandering in the wood with this, it was far too heavy for her.”

He felt the pair rake their eyes over him, examining his coat and hat, determining whether or not he would be a good mark. They were the sorts of eyes that he had known in the conmen at Toulon. Apparently, they found him passable as they started oozing their odd brand of charm. “Please come in, Monsieur,” M. Thenardier opened the door.

“May I take your hat?” the Madame offered and so on, leading him further into their lair with the hopes of picking him clean. Valjean dodged their hands, taking back the things they attempted to pilfer from him. He had spent too long in the company of thieves to be taken in by them. 

The Thenardiers had the same biology as Javert, but none of the qualities that made him so endearing to Valjean. They were obviously mated; their smells were all over each other, even though they could not bond. Valjean also found it odd that there were smells of others as well, and they were not the smells of children.

He idly wondered what he would do if Javert had ever come to him smelling of another, and his hands clenched into fists. Even though they had been separated for almost a year, Valjean was still capable of feeling jealous of anyone touching his paramour. He knew he had no right to claim Javert, that their nights and days together were under the deception of another name but Valjean could not help his instincts. 

Those same instincts were ones that Valjean had to keep in check to prevent him from tearing the Thenardiers apart for their treatment of Cosette. The protectiveness that he felt for her was sudden and fierce, but no less real than what he had felt for Javert the night he had come home bruised from a highwayman’s fist. 

“Will you stay the night, Monsieur?” M. Thenardier asked.

“No, I’m here for Cosette; it is my intent to make her my ward,” Valjean said. The child beside him gasped with happiness. 

“Really? You want to be my Papa?” she asked.

Valjean smiled. “If you’ll have me.”

The Thenardiers shared a glance full of the cunning developed over years of working together. Suddenly, Cosette was ripped from Valjean’s side and pulled into the arms of M. Thenardier. The husband and wife petted and fondled Cosette in a grotesque parody of affection. The child bore it all stoically, her eyes pleading with Valjean not to believe their lies. 

“But you see, Monsieur,” M. Thenardier began. “This poor child’s mother left her in our care and we could not just trust her to anyone. The mother had been sending us money, but she has slacked as of late and the girl’s been so very ill.” The man coughed behind her head, as if the sound was coming from her.

“Terribly ill,” Madame piped in, also coughing. “And medicine is not cheap, poor little dear.” She pinched the girl’s cheek and Cosette rolled her eyes.

“But after all—“ Thenardier said.

“It was what we, as good Christians, should do,” they finished in chorus. The two of them beamed at Valjean with all the sincerity of a grinning crocodile. 

Valjean was growing impatient with their theatrics. He pulled several bank notes from his pocket. “Will this cover the cost?”

M. Thenardier plucked the money from his hands, almost too quick for the eye to follow. The man muttered to himself, counting the bills. “Five hundred francs is a considerable sum Monsieur,” he said, “but her mother had fallen behind on her payments.”

Valjean handed the man another bill. He could see the greed in the Thenardiers’ eyes and how their mouths were practically salivating. 

“Fifteen hundred francs—“

“Is more than enough,” Valjean interrupted. He pulled out a letter from his coat pocket. “This girl is to be entrusted to me, here is a note from her mother.”

Once again, the Thenardier and his wife glanced over the words. “Everything seems to be in order,” M. Thenardier agreed. “But the woman’s debt—“

“Has been paid many times over.” Valjean was angry now. These people were insatiable in their greed and their cruelty. Cosette was rightfully his and they had no claim to her. He reached out for Cosette and the child pried herself out of Mme. Thenardier’s grip, launching herself at Valjean. He scooped the child up, holding her close to his chest. 

Valjean was surprised at how right it felt to have this child in his arms, how good it felt to hold her in safety.

“But Monsieur—“

Valjean had only used the voice twice in his life, both times on Javert. Now he would use it again and this was the only time he would ever use it without guilt. “Be silent. You have been paid off,” he commanded. “You will leave Cosette in my care, you have all the money you will ever get from me. You will not follow us, you will not seek us out and heaven help you if I ever see you two again.” 

M. and Mme. Thenardier stood there in shock, unable to move. The innkeeper opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out. The wife glared at Valjean with an impotent hatred. It was a look that Valjean cared not a whit about.

He left the inn, Cosette a welcome shivering burden in his arms. They passed by a shop with a beautiful doll in the window. The little doll was elegantly dressed, her frock and bonnet fringed with lace. He noticed how Cosette gawked at it. “Would you like that doll?” he asked.

Cosette turned her soulful gaze to him. “Yes,” she admitted.

“But you would like a coat more?” Valjean asked.

The girl nodded. 

Valjean felt his heart clench and he stroked her frail back. “Then you shall have both.” He vowed then and there that the girl would never know want and never know hunger ever again. Valjean would give Cosette everything he had never been able to give his sister’s children, everything that Javert had never allowed him to give. If he could save just this one precious little life, then maybe his past sins could finally be forgiven.


	3. Gorbeau House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by firebirdofthenight

The Gorbeau House was a terrible place, but to a child who had known hunger and to a man tasting sweet freedom again, it was paradise. For the first two days, Valjean would not permit the child to work. He was content to lie on the floor or sit on the bed and watch Cosette play with her new doll. She had named the doll Catherine; Valjean was not sure why, nor did he particularly care.

What was important was the dawning of joy upon that thin face; how, to a child with so little, even the smallest display of love could open her world. Valjean was almost in awe of this little girl, of how precious she was becoming to him in such a short period of time.

She asked him no questions, made no demands; Cosette was content to simply play, as if allowed to do so for the first time in her life. Valjean knew he could not let her do so forever. Even now, as he watched her taking tea with little Catherine, he could hear Javert’s voice in the back of his mind admonishing him. 

“You’ll spoil her,” imaginary Javert told him. “All frivolity and no discipline will ruin her.”

The Javert in his mind was right; there was no point in taking Cosette away from terrible labor only to lead her into idleness. Valjean sighed in regret, he wished Javert were here; that the other man could be Cosette’s father so Valjean could be her Papa. He did not know if he had the heart or the strength to give Cosette everything she really needed. Physical comforts were one thing; the emotional and social needs on the other hand—

“Monsieur,” Cosette asked. “Are you sad?”

Valjean blinked; this was the first time she had addressed him in quite a while. “You don’t have to call me that,” he said. “I will be taking care of you, you may call me what you wish.”

Cosette bit her lower lip, as if contemplating the revelation that she had control over something. “Papa--” Her mouth tasted the word and found it pleasing. Valjean could not help but quirk his lips at the sound; he found it acceptable as well. “Are you sad, Papa?” 

“No,” he said. “Just thinking of things.”

“What sort of things?” Cosette asked, her curiosity awakening.

It seemed foolish to admit, but it would be worse to deny it. “Chores,” he answered. 

Cosette began to tremble, her arms wrapped around her doll. “Like at the inn?” she whispered.

“No,” Valjean said, horrified that the child would equate the two. “More like responsibilities that you must see to,” he tried to explain. “Play is a reward for work.” 

“Reward?” Cosette asked, as if she had never heard the term before.

“A reward is something you get for doing good,” Valjean said. “But do not think on it today. Tomorrow we will discuss chores and begin then.”

The girl beamed at him and Valjean knew he was lost. How could he deny Cosette anything? How could he teach her right from wrong when all she had to do was smile and break down his defenses? 

Valjean was as good as his word, the next morning they discussed a series of chores for Cosette to perform. They were all simple acts, just tidying up their sparse rooms, but it was enough for the child to feel a sense of responsibility and, more importantly, pride when she was finished. Their days together were simple; there was work and play, then most nights Valjean would spend with a book, teaching Cosette her letters. She was an eager student and Valjean was a patient teacher. 

Several weeks passed and Cosette’s thin frame filled out, her demeanor became friendlier and her whole aspect much more appealing. With her strength regained, Valjean would wander the back alleys and disused streets at twilight with his charge. Sometimes he would give alms to those less fortunate; sometimes they would sit by a fountain and watch the sun go down. It was a simple life.

One day, as Cosette was making the bed she asked, “Papa, did my mother love me?” 

Valjean was startled by the question. “Yes, your mother loved you very much.”

“Then why did she not come for me?”

Silence. Valjean felt hot tears prick at his eyes. This child had suffered so much and she did not know why. Oh Fantine, how to tell her child what had happened to her? How much should he reveal or should he just hold his tongue?

He sat down in one of the chairs and patted his lap. “Come, sit.”

Cosette crawled onto his lap, still so small even after having eaten well the past few weeks. 

“She did send for you, Cosette,” Valjean explained. “The fault lies with me. I sent money to the Thenardiers and asked for them to give you to your mother. I trusted them, just like your mother had trusted them to care for you in the first place.” 

He stroked a hand through the hair that was no longer coarse and dirty. Cosette’s head was filled with the blonde curls that her mother had spoken about with such reverence. “The Thenardiers tricked your mother by pretending to be nice. Did you see them do that with their customers?”

Cosette nodded.

“They did the same with your mother.” Valjean looked deep into the child’s eyes. “It would have broken her heart to see what they had done to you. They are greedy, terrible folk. They kept demanding more and more from her and when she lost her job--”

Valjean swallowed back the lump in his throat. Cosette’s suffering was not his fault, no one had known about the Thenardiers’ true nature but Fantine-- 

If only the forewoman had come to him, if only Fantine had come to him-- there were too many twists and turns the story could have taken to avert this tragedy. To think of them all would drive him mad. Valjean had to be careful what he said next; there was no need to traumatize the child. “She took work that made her very ill. When I met her, I discovered that it was my factory that had turned her out.”

Tears formed in the corners of Cosette’s eyes. Valjean thumbed them away, his caress gentle. “I took her to a hospital, so the doctor could try to make her better. It was too late, and she wanted nothing more than to see you so I sent the money and I sent her letters. When you are older I will let you see them.” He still had each one tucked away, hidden in a safe place. They were Cosette’s now, whenever she needed them. 

“I am so sorry that it took this long. She wanted you back so badly and I kept thinking that the Thenardiers would honor their agreement and they never did. I should have come for you myself earlier but I kept thinking that there was still time.” He lowered his gaze, unable to finish. 

Cosette fisted Valjean’s shirt and sobbed, her tiny head pressed against his chest. “I am so sorry, Cosette.” He cradled her in his arms and stroked the back of her head. He let her cry, let all the pain and all the sorrow out. Valjean prayed that this girl would never know wretchedness like this again. He kissed the top of her head. “But you are here now with me, and I will keep you safe. I promised your mother and now I will promise you,” he said.

Cosette raised her head, eyes red and watery. “Promise?”

“Yes,” Valjean said. It was a single word, but it held all the power of the most faithful vow. 

\----

A life idyllic cannot last forever. Javert had found them at last, Valjean was sure of it. The landlady had taken on a new tenant she seemed very reluctant to talk about, and Valjean had started to feel Javert’s presence in a way he hadn’t since M. sur M. If Javert was not in Gorbeau House, then he was certainly nearby. Although in Valjean’s daydreams Javert had been more than willing to assist in raising Cosette, Valjean was not foolish enough to believe that such a thing would occur in real life. As such, it was time for them to flee.

When darkness came, Valjean bundled up their scarce belongings and took off with Cosette into the night. He had much experience with being pursued as a lone man, but burdened with a child Valjean was not certain if he would be successful. 

He knew that trying to get out of Paris might be impossible and would have to try to find a new hiding place within the city’s walls. To be honest, he had chosen to hide in Paris in the first place because of its size -- but also because of the late nights he had spent with Javert constructing a new fantasy life together. Tonight would be the test to determine if the marriage between practicality and sentimentality would work.

Valjean and Cosette had to get across the river to put the furthest amount of distance between themselves and any potential pursuers. He took her through the back streets he knew so well, keeping the two of them to the shadows to avoid observation. Soon they came to an open square illuminated by the moon. Valjean decided to wait; if he was being pursued, he could at least see who it was once they came into the square. 

A few moments later, there was the sound of hoofs and men’s boots coming toward them. Into the light of the moon came Javert; he was astride his horse and giving commands to a few other men who had come with him. Paris had been good to Javert; his uniform was pressed and well tailored, conforming to his body in a way that was almost obscene. 

Valjean willed his heartbeat to slow, for his instincts to calm down. Being sent back to Toulon had been a miserable experience for him and his nights had been haunted with dreams of Javert’s affection and of his body. The man on the run wanted to flee, to spirit Cosette and himself away; his aggressive nature, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than to pull Javert into the next alley and fuck him. 

He would not think about the way those strong thighs flexed as Javert would raise and lower himself on Valjean’s cock. How Valjean would pant, almost incoherent with need as that slick, tight heat enveloped him—

Cosette squeezed his hand, interrupting his thoughts. Valjean was never more grateful for the child’s presence. He needed to focus, not fantasize about his former paramour. Even so, Valjean was relieved when Javert dismounted. Yes, the Inspector would be quieter but his pursuit would also be slower; that and Valjean no longer had the excuse to think about Javert sitting astride something other than a horse. 

Javert was still talking to his men and Valjean decided that it would be prudent to use this time to his advantage. He retraced some of his steps, Cosette running behind him. At one point, the child became too fatigued and Valjean had to carry her. They made it to the bridge before the police and Valjean paid the toll. They hurried on, Valjean’s mind racing with the possibilities. 

He came to an intersection buffeted by high walls. There were only a few avenues of escape, and one of them was covered by a guard. Valjean had been proud of Javert’s intelligence in M. sur M. -- but now that it was being used against him, he found it quite vexing. 

The other street was a blind alley and the final option was back the way he had come. Valjean was trapped. If he did not find escape, Cosette would be lost to him forever. He clenched his jaw in determination, he would not succumb to despair, there had to be another way. 

He looked to the sky and there, one of the walls framed a larger structure; one whose top was invisible from the street. If he could get himself and Cosette up there they would be safe. One man could climb such a wall; Valjean had done it before but the child—

A coil of rope with an old-fashioned lamp gave him the inspiration he needed. Within a few moments, he had scaled the wall and hauled Cosette up after him. For any other man, it might have been a tremendous feat of strength -- but for Valjean, it was child’s play. He lay on the top of the wall, clutching Cosette close to him. He would wait for Javert to pass, and then they could take stock of their surroundings.

He did not have to wait long, Javert and his men rushed out into the streets, lanterns held high to illuminate the dark corners. “Have you seen them pass by?” Javert called out to his stationed guard.

“No sir, not yet.”

Javert cursed under his breath. Valjean held his hands against Cosette’s ears. There was no need for her to hear such language. 

“Search the blind alley!” Javert ordered. The soldiers scattered, searching every nook and cranny. Valjean did not risk peeking over the edge, but he could imagine Javert’s frustrated pacing. 

He heard the sound of footsteps approaching their wall. Someone spoke, the masculine voice almost too low to hear: “I know you’re here Valjean, I will find you.”

Oh god, Javert could feel him, just like he could feel Javert. The only consolation Valjean had was that Javert could not pinpoint his exact location. As long as he and Cosette made no sound, there would be nothing to give them away.  
It was almost a half an hour before Valjean heard the soldiers leave; they were following Javert’s lead down a different path. Valjean let the silence drag on for another ten minutes before he moved. He risked peeking over the edge of the wall and discovered a deserted street. 

“You’ve been very good, Cosette,” he told her. The child tried to smile but she shivered in his arms. 

It was a very cold night and they had been out too long. Valjean needed to find shelter for himself and for Cosette. He looked around and discovered a roof behind them. With a little scrambling, he carried Cosette onto the roof and down into the walled off area below it. 

He discovered that his new sanctuary was a garden, one covered mostly in snow but still obviously well tended. As he gazed about in the darkness, a strange sound assaulted his ears. It was a chorus of feminine voices, all blending together into a wall of noise. He could not understand them and in his fatigue and with his chilled bones Valjean became frightened. 

Cosette murmured something but he could not hear her, her voice was too weak. Valjean steeled his courage; if he could face the soldiers, he could face this bodiless host. He stepped forward toward the sounds and then stopped. There was a tinkling of a bell, coming closer and closer to him. The bell would tinkle once, then stop, then there would be another tinkle and another pause.

What was this strange place?

Suddenly, he saw the light of a lantern coming around the corner. Before he could hide, the light was upon him. Valjean shielded his eyes against the brightness.

“Monsieur le Maire?” It was the voice of an old man. 

Valjean was astonished. Someone from M. sur M., here? “Do I know you?” Valjean asked.

The old man snorted. “You saved my life, Monsieur. For most this would be a monumental occasion, but for you, it was nothing.”

It took Valjean a moment, but when he looked at the man’s face again he remembered the weight of a cart and the weight of the Inspector’s stare as he moved it. “Monsieur Fauchelevent?” 

The old man nodded, “The same.”

What luck, a man who owed Valjean a favor. “May I ask you for a place to stay? I am caring for this child,” Valjean turned so that Fauchelevent could see Cosette on his back, “and we are both very cold.”

“Well, then it’s good we are in a place of sanctuary then,” Fauchelevent said. He raised his lantern to reveal a massive edifice. “Welcome to the convent at Petit-Picpus.”


	4. The Convent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: firebirdofthenight

Part 4: The Convent 

After an adventure where Valjean had overcomplicated a simple affair and had nearly been buried alive in a deceased nun’s coffin, Valjean and Cosette were installed at the convent as Fauchelevent’s brother and grand-niece respectively. Valjean found himself once again working the soil, an occupation he had enjoyed before his life had taken a turn into darkness. Cosette was taken into the convent’s boarding school and was raised by the strict nuns of the order.

According to the strictures of this particular convent, the nuns and girls of the boarding school were not allowed to interact with men. As such, the gardener wore a bell on his kneecap to warn the women and girls of his presence. Even on visiting days, the girls were only allowed to see their mothers and sisters, never their male relations. Cosette, as a charity case and the granddaughter of the new gardener, was the only exception.

For one hour every day she would see Valjean and tell him all of her adventures and what the nuns were teaching her that day. Cosette was an excellent student and she blossomed with the friendship of the other girls. She was quiet for the most part; life with the Thenardiers had taught her the importance of a still tongue, and so their secrets were safe from the prying of curious schoolgirls. 

Life in the convent was humbling for Valjean. Being surrounded by these pious women who had chosen to seclude themselves from the world stirred shame from deep inside him. He had been imprisoned for his illegal actions; these women chose to isolate themselves due to piety. The unstained nuns prayed for forgiveness of the sins of the entire world; Valjean could only pray for salvation from his own. 

Valjean spent many nights on his knees before his bed, hands clasped. He prayed for forgiveness for the theft that had started it all; he asked to be relieved of the guilt for forgetting the seven little faces he had sinned for; he beseeched the Lord to keep the souls of the dead safe; he pleaded for Cosette to grow up well; he implored God to let Javert be happy, even if he could not will himself for the Inspector to find that happiness with someone else. Finally, he pleaded with God for Javert to find it in his heart to forgive Valjean for the trespasses he had made against him; for Javert to understand the honesty of his intentions, even though they had been rooted in deception. 

Valjean was grateful for the silence that occupied most of his day. It gave him time to meditate, to work through his guilt, and most importantly, to weep unobserved by prying eyes. Years passed in this fashion, Valjean grew closer to God with labor and prayer and Cosette, quite simply, grew up. 

\---- 

“This wine is awful, Lambert,” Poulin complained, his face screwed up in disgust. “Where ever did you get it?”

“It is the wine you brought,” Lambert said with a merry grin. 

Poulin looked confused. “Really?” He had already partaken of too much of the said awful wine. 

Javert smirked at his former colleagues. “At least I had the good taste to bring sweets for the couple.” 

Half a year after losing track of Valjean, Javert had found himself back in M. sur M. The receipt of a much-anticipated invitation had softened the blow to his ego over the failure to capture his mate. Somehow, Lambert had convinced his lovely grisette that he was worth keeping and now Javert had the pleasure of seeing the factory girl become a bride. 

“All of which are delicious, Monsieur Inspector.” Marie, the newly minted Madame Lambert, patted Javert’s hand in appreciation. She was a silly woman, but only in the best of ways. Javert noted how deft she was at dealing with her wedding guests and how she kept them all in a celebratory mood. Marie Lambert was an excellent hostess and Javert was glad that she had found a man who made her happy. 

Javert raised a glass in her honor. “A sweet start for a sweet woman.” 

Marie flushed and it made her look all the prettier. “It is not too late, milady, you could certainly find a better groom nearby,” Javert teased.

The young woman laughed. “I’m afraid that my heart belongs to this one.” Marie’s gaze turned to Lambert, the look in her eyes fond.

“Yes.” Javert smiled; the wine was awful but it was doing wonderful things to his head. “I too am not immune to the arbitrary notions of the human heart.” 

“Really, Inspector?” Marie’s grin was infectious; Lambert was a lucky man.

“And I’m not going to reveal anymore,” Javert said, his voice a conspiratorial whisper, “because you will tell your husband and he will lose all fear of me.”

Marie had the audacity to raise an eyebrow at him. “He hardly fears you now.”

“I must rectify that immediately!” Javert made a move to stand up and Marie laughed, grabbing at his arm.

“Yes, hold him back, Marie!” Poulin said. “He may be old, but he is a terror!”

Javert was glad he had come. Explaining to his superiors in Paris that yes, he had friends, and yes he had been invited to a wedding had been excruciating. Apparently, he had already developed a reputation. Perhaps he could make more of an effort to ingratiate himself to his Parisian colleagues but, quite frankly, he didn’t trust them like he did these two men. 

“At least Madame Lambert has the strength to do so,” Javert said to Poulin. “Who knows what waif you may end up with.” 

“So our dear friend likes them strong, eh?” Poulin nudged him with his elbow, missing Javert’s arm and striking him in the chest. Yes, these fools were his friends and Javert would not trade them for anything. 

“You know,” Lambert said, the drink loosening his tongue, “I never saw the Inspector with anyone in M. sur M. other than Monsieur le Maire. I wonder how many times the man had you over his desk?”

Javert nearly choked on his drink. That had only happened once; most times if they couldn’t wait to get out of the office they had just taken themselves in hand.

“An old man like the Mayor? Please, his joints couldn’t handle such a thing; they would have used a bed,” Poulin said; he then burst out laughing. Lambert and Javert joined in, the latter very much relieved that his secret was still safe. 

As much as he enjoyed his friendship with Poulin and Lambert, there were some things he was reluctant to tell them. Although they had never demonstrated any prejudices against those of his particular biology, Javert was not ready to test their loyalty. 

“So, where do you plan to make your home?” Javert asked, changing the subject. “There are some lovely properties near the station.” 

“Actually,” Lambert said, “I’m being transferred.” He said this with a little fear, as if afraid that Javert would disapprove. 

The Inspector found this both ridiculous and comforting. He scoffed. “If you think that gets you out of letter writing duty, you are out of your mind.”

The younger man beamed, grateful for his former superior’s approval. “However,” Javert continued, “I am not expecting the next one until after your honeymoon.” The sound of their laughter filled the air. Javert was a little disappointed he would have to go back to Paris.

\---

“The Sisters talked about differentiating today.” 

Valjean nearly choked on his tea. What were the Sisters thinking? Cosette was only twelve years old; she did not need to know about such things yet!

“Sarah was asking why the older girls were separated into groups when the younger girls weren’t,” Cosette said, she fidgeted in her chair. “The teacher said it was for their own protection. The aggressives are brutes and can’t help themselves while the submissives would just let them have their way. And it’s not fair to the normal girls for them to be caught in the middle.”

Even here in a house of God, the dark tendrils of society’s hate could still reach. “I can see why precautions might be necessary,” Valjean said, “but I have seen more of the world than your teacher and I know that what she says is not always the case.”

Cosette nodded; she was listening.

“For instance, I am an aggressive; do you think me a brute?” Valjean asked.

“No Papa, you are the most wonderful man in the world,” Cosette answered. Valjean let out a breath he was unaware he was holding. This girl’s opinion meant everything to him.

“To be fair,” he said, “I wasn’t always this way. Long before I met you I was a brute, but I changed; I became the man I am today with hard work and compassion.” 

“But weren’t you mated, Papa?” Cosette asked. “The nuns say that it tempers an aggressive and that’s why they allow you to work here.”

Although Valjean had lied to the nuns about his name and parentage, he could not lie to them about his constitution. When it had appeared that they would refuse him based on this alone, he had revealed that he had been previously mated. This had calmed the prioress and she had allowed him to stay. Valjean was only thankful that she had not pressed for details. “True,” he said. “But it is also true that biology does not determine what sort of person you grow up to be.”

Cosette leaned forward in her chair; she was always excited to hear views that differed from the nuns and if they came from her Papa then it was even better. “What do you mean, Papa?”

“Well, what did the teacher tell you about submissives?” Valjean asked.

Cosette’s face screwed up in concentration, then she recited: “That they were weak-willed and easily controlled but that their natures made them docile and able to accept God’s grace without argument.”

Valjean thought of the Thenardiers and burst out laughing.

The child scowled, unused to hearing her father being amused at her expense.

Valjean wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry, Cosette. Your teacher has obviously been secluded too long.” He took a sip of tea to compose himself. “Do you remember the Thenardiers?”

Cosette’s horrified expression told him everything. Although time had softened and dulled the wounds, the scars were still present on the girl’s psyche. 

“The two of them were deceitful, selfish and brutal but not all submissives are like them,” Valjean said.

“I should hope not,” Cosette blurted out.

“No,” Valjean said, “some are brave, honest and totally committed to their duty.” Valjean’s expression softened as he thought about his former paramour. “Once, Javert went after some dangerous highwaymen,” Valjean told Cosette; the excitement in his voice held the child in thrall. “Though he was in danger himself, he could not let others come to harm. He took on a great risk to bring these terrible men to justice. He fought them hand to hand and subdued them. One of them had hurt him; he came home bruised here--” Valjean touched his cheek in the same spot that Javert had been injured. 

“I was so angry but he would not let me coddle him. Javert was a proud man and he only bent before me when he wanted to,” Valjean said, his smile wistful. It was hard not to miss Javert.

Cosette’s voice broke through his reverie. “Who is Javert?”

Valjean’s heart pounded in his chest. That was a mistake; he should never have said the name. He could not lie to the child but he could not tell her the entire truth either. It would be too much for Cosette to handle. “Javert is--was my mate,” Valjean admitted.

“Then why is he not here with us? Why have you not talked of him before?” Cosette asked.

To lie by omission was still to lie. “Circumstances forced us to separate and to remember him--” Valjean closed his eyes. “It is painful.”

The child thought on this a moment. “Was it because he was so committed to finding bad men?”

Valjean chuckled; amazing how close Cosette was to the truth. “Yes, my child.” 

Cosette was piecing things together. “Is he a policeman?”

“Yes.” He had underestimated the child’s intelligence.

“Then perhaps I will meet him when I am grown up,” Cosette said.

Valjean had not even considered the possibility of life outside of the convent. They could not stay there forever; unless Cosette took up the veil they would venture into the outside world someday. Valjean’s answer was evasive; he hoped Cosette would change the subject. “Perhaps.” 

“Would I like this Javert, if I met him?” Cosette asked. 

Valjean smiled. “I think you would.” 

Cosette glanced at the clock; their time was nearly up. “Papa?” she asked. “Do you think I will be a submissive?”

“No,” Valjean answered. “Your mother was normal and your father, your real father, was like me.”

“What happened to my real father?” Cosette asked.

Valjean let out a groan. Why was the child asking all of the most difficult questions today? “I’m not certain there’s time—“

“Please.” Cosette’s eyes were pleading with him.

Fantine had told Valjean just enough about her former lover that he was hesitant to reveal anything to Cosette. It was harsh enough to never know the man but to know that she had deliberately been abandoned—

“Papa, please. If I am an aggressive like my father I want to know,” Cosette said.

“You are not like your father,” Valjean slid off his chair and knelt before Cosette. He held the girl’s tiny shoulders in his grip. “He made promises to your mother and broke them. He left her because he was a coward. You are a good girl; you don’t break your promises.”

Cosette stared down at her hands. “If my mother was normal—“

“They couldn’t properly bond, but that doesn’t matter,” Valjean said. “She still loved him. Her feelings were no less real, her heart no less pure.”

“Did you love Javert?” Cosette asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Valjean swallowed the lump in his throat. “I still do and I always will.” 

“Then why don’t you find him?” Cosette asked.

Valjean was in agony. “Cosette, I can’t—“

“Then you are a coward too,” Cosette snapped. Her eyes were fierce even with tears staining her cheeks. “How can you love someone and let them go?”

Valjean drew back; he had never seen his charge express anger. “It’s not that simple—“

“Yes, it is.” Cosette rose to her feet, hands clenched at her sides. “If I’m an aggressive I won’t be a coward, not like you, not like my father. If I love someone I am never letting them go. I will fight for them! I will!” Her declaration held all the passion of a girl budding into womanhood; for though she was still young, her convictions were strong.

“Cosette—“

The girl ignored his outstretched hands and dashed from the room. Valjean sat on the floor, too shocked to move. It would be three days before Cosette would deign to speak to him again.


	5. Marius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: firebirdofthenight

The presence of money did not alleviate the problems associated with biology; instead, it created a whole new set of complications. The upper classes preferred to hold onto their wealth by keeping it close; it was difficult enough when normal children became infatuated with performers or grisettes, but throwing alternate biologies into the mix was disastrous. It was nearly impossible to dissolve an ill-fated union once a bond had formed.

Thus, marriages between the bourgeoisies or the titled were always carefully arranged. In some families, the illusion of normalcy led to a strict vetting process, only matching an heir to a complimentary biology of the opposite sex. Other families were more concerned with gold and the sex of a perspective in law mattered much less than the fullness of their purses. 

The Gillenormand family preferred the illusion of normalcy; their grandson Marius Pontmercy would have preferred the freedom of choice. Marius was the son of a bourgeois lady and a soldier who had served under the Emperor. While in Napoleon’s service, Georges Pontmercy was given the title of Baron and the rank of colonel. With the coming of the Restoration he lost both title and rank, leaving him with a poor pension. 

M. Gillenormand, being a Royalist who rather disliked his son-in-law, issued an ultimatum: if former Col. Pontmercy did not relinquish custody of his son then Marius would be disinherited. Although M. Gillenormand had only a modest income, his daughter-- Marius’s maiden aunt-- had a fortune. Seeing little choice, Pontmercy gave up his only child. Thus it was that two men in this tale abandoned their sons in an attempt to provide for them, though Javert’s father’s absence was involuntary. 

M. Gillenormand’s distain for Pontmercy stemmed mostly from his politics, but also from his biology. The old man was normal and thus his views on those sorts of relationships were regressive at best. He firmly believed that if his daughter had not been a submissive she would not have succumbed to a marriage with an aggressive lout. The notion that his daughter would have been quite infatuated with the good and handsome Georges Pontmercy even without the assistance of biology would have been considered a blasphemy if spoken within his hearing. 

So Marius was raised by Monsieur and Mademoiselle Gillenormand; he saw little of the outside world, spending most of his time being tutored or in the fashionable salons of M. Gillenormand’s friends. The boy grew to loathe his father, having only been told the absolute worst about him. The slander spoken against this man was all politically motivated, but as Marius was still a child he took his grandfather’s word for gospel.

Everything changed the day Marius received a summons; his father was dying and his presence was requested. He dallied at home, feeling no urgency in the matter and by the time he had made the journey Georges Pontmercy was dead, his last tears still wet upon his cheeks. Many would have been moved by such a sight, but not Marius. He had no affection for this man he did not know, this man who had helped give him life. As far as Marius knew, Georges Pontmercy was a traitor, an agitator to the crown.

The poor man had left nothing to Marius but a single note: it was an entreaty to find a man named Thenardier who had saved his life after the battle of Waterloo. Marius kept the paper but thought little about it. 

Things would have continued as they had before, had Marius not had a chance encounter at church. There, he met the church warden who told him the sad tale of a father forbidden from contact with his son; a man so desperate for any sight of his child that he would hide and watch the boy from the shadows. It was quickly discovered that Marius was the son in question and the father Georges Pontmercy. This simple event changed Marius’ life.

He went to the library and studied history, devouring every word he could find about his father. The more he learned, the more ashamed he felt of his past feelings toward this man. But as the shame grew, so did a fanaticism, a worship of Georges Pontmercy and the ideals he fought for. Napoleon became as a god to Marius and Georges his disciple. 

Marius began to request leaves from home, disappearing for days at a time. Mlle. Gillenormand was worried about this but M. Gillenormand took a more pragmatic view. He believed Marius was carrying on a love affair. Marius’s grandfather was the type of man who believed that women were the gatekeepers to sex and that men were the locksmiths who had to pry them open. If Marius was plying his trade as a locksmith, then nothing could be better.

M. Gillenormand had been worried when Marius grew up to be a submissive like his mother since she had been led so easily astray. But Marius was a young man, not a frail girl, and if he wished to indulge himself as did other men then M. Gillenormand was pleased. 

He was less pleased, however, when he discovered that Marius’s affair was not of the heart but of the intellect. The fallout was terrible; Marius withdrew himself from the household, cursing the current regime the entire time. M. and Mlle. Gillenormand watched this display, heartbroken and stunned. M. Gillenormand instructed his daughter to send Marius money wherever he ended up, but the old man was not certain if he would ever see his grandson again.

\---- 

Marius quickly discovered a flaw in his plan, namely that he did not have one. He had some money and a bag but no home, no occupation and no idea what to do. He spent his first few hours of emancipation riding around aimlessly in a carriage through the streets of Paris. 

When he passed by a café, he heard a voice call out his name. The young man addressing him was unfamiliar but identified himself as a classmate of Marius’s.

“I’m afraid I don’t know you, Monsieur,” Marius said.

“That’s all right,” the other man said. “I didn’t know you either until I pretended to be you.” This young man was one Laigle de Meaux, or just Laigle as he preferred to be known. Several days previously, Marius had been absent from class and Laigle, out of pure spite for the roll-taker, had claimed that he was M. Pontmercy. This had led to Laigle’s own dismissal from the class, an occurrence which left Laigle debating his future.

Also present during this discussion was another student by the name of Courfeyrac, who upon hearing of Marius’s circumstances offered the young man a place to live. It was in this way that Marius become involved with the les Amis. Les Amis were a group of students and working class fellows united in a dream of a new republic. Marius was never quite comfortable attending their meetings as his Bonopartist leanings were too retrograde for their tastes.

The young man’s philosophies were still too new, too tender to come under intense scrutiny so he preferred solitary company. He had just broken free of his grandfather’s influence and was unready to deal with anyone else’s ideas. He finished his schooling to become a lawyer-- although he never practiced--and managed to live on his own, free of debt.

To save money, he eventually moved into the hovel known as Gorbeau House, taking only a small room with no fireplace. He scrimped, he saved and Marius became very proud of his own poverty. Even when given a chance to improve his situation, he chose to continue as he was. Marius was either an idealist or a fool; most likely both.

He worked translating for a publisher and spent much of his time dreaming. Marius spent some time with les Amis, but his closest companions were Courfeyrac and the warden who had told him about his father. Too much of the young man’s identity was tied up in the history of Georges Pontmercy for him to truly blossom. 

Over the next several years he grew into a handsome, serious young man who dressed in shabby clothes as befitted his lack of income. He attracted the attention of those of opposite biologies, but often assumed the attention was scorn due to his own shyness and his unkempt apparel. His friends were no help as they were more interested in teasing him than building up his fragile self-image. 

He began a routine, as part of his daily meditations, of walking around the disused streets of Luxembourg absorbing the feel of humanity around him. On these walks he noticed an old man and a girl sitting on a particular bench. These two were not notable individuals except that they were always there and ignored the world around them. The old man was well dressed and had a look of strength about him. The girl was unremarkable and even homely. Courfeyrac had taken to calling them Monsieur Leblanc and Mademoiselle Lanoire respectively and it was by these names that they were known to the students. 

Then, as suddenly as Marius had noticed them, they disappeared. It was no great loss, not even a footnote in the young man’s daily existence. Then one day, six months later, they reappeared. The father had remained the same but what had been a drab child had grown into a beautiful young woman. 

Marius’s felt his pulse quicken and his mouth dried up. He felt a strange lightness in his chest as he gazed at her face. How could she affect him so? How was it that in such a short amount of time she had transfigured herself? Marius wanted to go to the bench, to kneel down at her feet. He wanted to worship the ground that she walked upon. Her presence made him dizzy and her smell—

For the first time, Marius had felt that strange attraction that occurred when two complimentary natures meet and are compatible. Not every aggressive was attracted to every submissive or vice versa. If this were so, then Marius would have become infatuated with Enjolras, the de facto leader of les Amis, or Courfeyrac the moment that he had met them.

This girl, oh this girl. She was someone special, someone amazing; Marius just knew it. All he had to do was introduce himself, and that was where the problem lay. Marius was shy even on the best of days but his submissive nature exacerbated the problem. How could he possibly approach her? She was an aggressive; he had to wait to be noticed—

But if his mother had waited he might never have been born.

Mind made up, Marius decided on a new course of action. The next day he wore his best clothes, the ones he only donned for special occasions. He took great care in his toilette, making sure that his appearance was spotless. Then, with great determination he went on his walk. He followed his usual route, his brain whirling with the possibilities. 

His feet carried him through the streets, his mind occupied with thoughts of the girl; what it would be like to finally talk to her! In fact, Marius was so preoccupied that he passed right by the young lady and her father and kept walking. When he finally came to his senses, he was too far away to come up with a proper excuse to retrace his steps. He wanted to go back but his feet remained firm, too timid to move. Marius was a hopeless case, falling hard for a girl whose proper name he did not even know.

Luckily for Marius, he was not the only one affected by his burgeoning hormones. The girl in question had just reached the age of differentiation, that moment when a young person’s biology first manifests itself. She was fifteen to Marius’s twenty, but her body cared not for a few scant years difference. She had felt his presence keenly but could not spy who had aroused such intensity. 

“What is it, Cosette?” the old man asked, curious about the strange look on his daughter’s face.

The girl’s eyes cleared and she smiled at her father. “Nothing, Papa. It is nothing at all.”


	6. The Handkerchief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: firebirdofthenight

Over seven years had passed since Javert had last seen Valjean and he was resigned to never seeing the man again. There was a part of him that raged over a convict escaping justice but the rest of him, the part that had mellowed with time, was simply grateful that Valjean was still alive. On occasion when he patrolled through a particular quarter of Paris, he could feel the bond opening up again -- if only just a little.

It was enough to reassure, but not nearly enough to allow Javert to track the man down. After seeing Lambert married off, Javert just didn’t have the heart to continue the pursuit. He had numerous other responsibilities and spending his time on bringing in a man that the system still believed to be dead was a low priority. So Valjean would have his freedom as long as he was smart and continued to hide. No one else knew that he lived and Javert was content to keep it that way.

He focused his attention on his new comrades in the police, mentoring some of the younger officers and maintaining his standards to provide an example to the others. Javert was surprised at how often he was invited to drinks after work. He thought himself quite provincial compared to some of his fellow officers, but they found his wit sufficiently charming and dry. The years he had spent with Poulin and Lambert had been good to him.

He still heard from his former comrades through letters and the infrequent visit. Lambert and Marie were expecting a second child whom they planned to name after him -- even if the child turned out to be a girl. There had been a strange apology over not giving the first son his name but Marie’s grandfather had to be given first honors. Javert prayed that the second child would be a boy, if only to spare them the embarrassment of the name “Javertina” or some other derivative. 

Poulin had also gotten married, but his wedding had been much more raucous than Lambert’s. The bride’s family was filled with men who could not hold their drink, and the three policemen had had to restrain the bride’s father after he got into a political argument with one of Poulin’s uncles. There were no children yet, which meant there was no threat of a celebration in the near future. There was only so much of Poulin’s family a man could take. 

Yes, Javert had settled quite nicely in Paris. The work was exciting and challenging, he enjoyed dining more frequently and he had developed an excellent reputation. There were few things that Javert would change, but one of them would be Inspector Cloutier.

Inspector Cloutier was older than Javert, his hair whiter and his face more angular. He stood only a few inches higher than Javert but his aggressive nature made him seem even taller. Where the other officers held Javert in high esteem, or felt some camaraderie toward him, Cloutier’s attentions were much more unprofessional.

One night, Javert had been leaning against the wall reading a case file when a burly arm closed him in on his right. He lifted his eyes; it was Cloutier, of course. There was still an avenue for escape on his left and, although Cloutier was the larger man, Javert had survived numerous prison riots in Toulon. He knew exactly where to hit a man. 

“What are you doing here at this hour?” Cloutier asked.

Really? Was the man stooping so low this early in the conversation? “I’m reviewing information on the Patron-Minette.” 

The older man smiled. “So late?”

Damn, were they alone in the station? Javert should have just taken the file home with him. “It’s quiet; now if you’ll excuse me—“

Cloutier leaned his head forward, entering into Javert’s space. “A man like you shouldn’t be alone.”

Javert clenched his teeth. He had seen enough of this sort of boorish behavior in 24601; he had not tolerated it then and he would not tolerate it now. “Cloutier, I spend exactly as much time as I wish to outside of work with my colleagues.”

The other man raised a hand, moving to caress Javert’s face. “But companionship—“

Any sort of companionship with this man would be unbearable. Javert had fallen in love with Madeleine, a gentle man of good manners. He would not bend before a brute. Javert seized the other man’s wrist and pressed into a nerve with his thumb. Cloutier squawked in pain.

“Let me be frank,” Javert said, his voice perfectly calm. “I have no desire for your company.” He released Cloutier’s hand and swatted it away. “Ever.”

He pushed his way past the other officer, ignoring Cloutier’s curses and disparaging remarks about his family. Javert let the station doors slam shut behind him, leaving him with blessed silence.

Valjean had mystified Javert: an animal in one life, a gentleman in the next and finally—who knew? Whereas Valjean had the capacity for transformation, Javert doubted that Cloutier did. The officer was an old dog and he wasn’t going to learn any new tricks anytime soon.

\----

Leaving the convent had been bittersweet for Cosette. Although the outside world held great promise, the convent had been familiar and safe. For a child who had known deprivation, knowing that the next meal was always ready had been a blessing. But she did not want to take up the veil, to devote herself to God in the same way the Sisters had.

She wanted to experience the fullness of life, the sweetness of freedom and the agonies of love. After the row with her father, she had returned to his home three days later with an ultimatum: she would forgive him if he told her more about Javert. Papa had reluctantly agreed and their time together during recreation included excerpts from a time when he was in love.

Cosette knew that she wasn’t being told everything, but she was certain that the truth would come in time. In the convent, she had been eager for any word about the world outside of its walls. Now that she was out, it felt like she had traded one set of walls for another. Papa would not let her alone. They went on walks together, went to church together, and gave out alms together. All of these activities she enjoyed, but Cosette wanted to explore on her own.

She wanted to hear other peoples’ stories, share their experiences. Cosette did not want to go far, she was still young enough to feel fear of new places, but she still wanted to go _somewhere_. When she was younger she would read tales of far away places and people, but those were all fiction. She wanted the reality.

One of the places she and Papa frequented was the Luxembourg district. They would sit on the same bench day after day and talk, blocking out the world around them. Cosette knew that her Papa was afraid of other people for some reason, but did that mean she had to be punished for it as well? Papa might have been content with their sheltered existence but Cosette was not meant to be a hermit. Even in the convent she had at least been surrounded by other children. 

It was yet another day in a string of many just like the ones before; Cosette was nodding at some theory of her Papa’s when the wind changed. The scent was back. That wonderful aroma from the other day was back. She tried to look around without attracting her father’s attention. Cosette had to know who possessed that intoxicating scent. 

It made her heart yearn and her body ache. She knew that it was destiny, whoever this person was. Her eyes alighted upon a young man pretending to read a book. He was well dressed and nicely groomed, his hair dark and swept back from his face. He was peeking at her from atop the pages, glancing down again as if afraid of getting caught. He was handsome, the tiny bit she could see of him; his brow was serious and wise. 

He was her prime suspect but she had to get closer to be sure. Cosette waited through the agonizing minutes of her Papa lecturing her on some new edifying piece of literature he had read on poverty and the degradation of man and the effect on women and children—The rest of his words devolved into a meaningless prattle. On any other day she might have found it fascinating, but right now she willed her Papa to silence. She wanted to leave, right this instant!

Finally, her Papa noticed her disinterest. “Are you tired, Cosette?”

“A little,” she said. “I would like to go home and have some tea.” Tea was the last thing on her mind.

“That sounds excellent,” Papa said. They rose from their bench and began to walk right past the young man! 

Cosette took a deep breath, trying to hide her excitement. This was it. She raised her eyes to the young man’s and he met her gaze. All it took was a glance, that unfathomable glance woman possessed that drove men to ecstasy or despair. His face flushed and she knew at that exact moment that this boy was hers. He belonged to her; all she had to do was claim him. Cosette did not know his name but she would find out. She just had to figure out a way to get around her Papa.

\----

There was a young man staring at them. Valjean had spent too many years under the scrutiny of suspicious guards to not know when he was being watched. When he had first spied the young man months ago, Valjean had been concerned that Javert had found them and was placing them under surveillance. With observation, it became apparent that the boy was too incompetent to be one of Javert’s people. 

The young man was too clumsy, too obvious in his attempts to see and not be seen; he also had a tendency to sigh rather loudly. He brought the same book everyday, as if he wanted to be caught with that particular volume in hand. The young man rarely looked at Valjean, his eyes were always fixed on Cosette.

No, the boy wasn’t a spy; he was in love.

Valjean did not find this thought comforting. Cosette was still a child. Yes, she had differentiated but she was still a child, nonetheless. She was far too young to moon over a boy who couldn’t even be bothered to bring a different book to pretend to read. 

He was going to have to keep a close eye on this young man; find out who he is, his background, his family. Then Valjean would devise a way to keep Cosette far, far away from him. 

They brushed past the boy in question and Valjean rummaged in his pockets, pretending not to look at the young man. Cosette had the boy completely enraptured, his eyes filled with adoration. Valjean tried not to snarl. Cosette was far too young to deal with such nonsense. He was still her father, and he refused to give her up. He had already lost one of the people he loved; he was not going to lose another, especially not to this boy!

In all of his anger and contemplation, Valjean failed to notice that he had dropped one of his white handkerchiefs. He had unwittingly given the boy further justification for his romance. 

\----

When they departed, Marius let out a long shaky breath. His heart was in his throat. She had noticed him! She had noticed him and claimed him with her eyes. They still did not know each other’s names, but they knew each other’s intentions. He wanted to court her, to be courted by her, but what could they do? Marius did not know where she lived; he could not send her a missive, a plea to meet with him.

He knew that he was hopeless. Then there, on the ground he spied it, a single perfect white handkerchief. It was unmarred, even by dirt and in the corner was a monogram: U.F. Marius grinned, the expression ludicrous to anyone who had never been in love. He brought the token to his face and sniffed. The handkerchief was scented with a rich spice that went straight to Marius’s head. 

“Oh,” Marius said. “My darling’s name is Ursule.” This was pure conjecture on his part, it being the only name he could think of that started with a “u.” He sighed his lover’s sigh. “What beauty, what grace!” 

He carried the token in his breast pocket, occasionally taking it out to sniff and remind himself of his love. When he ran into Courfeyrac at lunch a week later, he held out his prize. “Do you see, she loves me!” he said.

“It’s a handkerchief,” Courfeyrac said. 

“But it touched her skin, her delicate face,” Marius insisted. “It dabbed at the sweet pools of her eyes!”

The other student laughed. “I don’t understand you,” Courfeyrac said. “I have known the attentions and love of many but I have never behaved as you do. It’s just a piece of linen.”

At this, Marius sobered. “It’s not the handkerchief, Courfeyrac,” he said. “It is everything. I feel drawn to her, compelled to be by her side. She gave me a look today, on some other girl it might have been coquettish but on her it was a command. She calls to me and I want to answer.” He ran a hand through his hair; at that moment he looked more like the serious young man that everyone knew. “I can’t explain it. I’ve never been an eloquent man.”

Courfeyrac stared at the coffee in his cup, thinking of a response. “Marius,” he said, “I have never known the pull as you have. I have gone through many loves, through many wonderful joyous nights, but I have never felt that sort of need. I envy and pity you.” He reached out a hand and placed it on Marius’s shoulder.

“Do not give up, my friend. I know that we may mock you, but you are one of the finest men I have ever known,” Courfeyrac said. 

The corner of Marius’s mouth twitched. “Thank you.”

“But you do know that is not a woman’s scent on that handkerchief?” Courfeyrac asked.

Marius stared at his friend for a moment. He held up the token of his love and sniffed again. He had been so infatuated he had never really analyzed just what he smelled. It was her father. The two of them were always so physically close that of course they would rub off on each other.

Marius’s face flushed with embarrassment. He moaned. “It’s her father’s.” The poor lad buried his head in his hands.

Courfeyrac guffawed with laughter and ordered them both another drink.


	7. Part 7: A Trap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: firebirdofthenight

There were other inhabitants at Gorbeau House but Marius had never met them. His own preference for solitude and his lack of interest had isolated himself from the other tenants. One month, out of the kindness of his heart, he had paid the overdue rent for one poor family and that was the extent of the contact. He would have continued on in this fashion if he had not, literally, run into the daughters of said family on the street.

Marius had to brace himself to keep from falling as two street urchins crashed into him. The three of them wrestled to disentangle themselves and the urchins took off running. He could hear snippets of conversation as they ran.

“I almost got caught; I almost got nicked!” the youngest cried out.

“If you panic, you will. Come on!” The eldest grabbed her sister’s hand—for Marius could tell now that they were sisters—and took off.

He only had a glimpse of them, but it was enough. The two girls had been dressed in rags and were filthy with the scum of the street. They had been thin, like they had known too many days of hunger. At this sight, Marius felt his pity and his guilt stir. Yes, he was poor, but this was true poverty. There were days when he had fasted, but these girls—

He shook his head, filled with shame at he had felt at his own frugality. While he was busy self-flagellating, Marius’s gaze happened upon a bundle of papers. They must have belonged to the urchins. Perhaps he could return them and help these poor creatures.

The letters had no return address and were badly sealed, so he opened them and pursued the contents. Marius was very confused by what he found. All the letters were vaguely addressed and were all from different people. They all had different styles, although the misspellings were the same, and they all had pleas for money. Unbeknownst to Marius, he had stumbled upon a crime. 

Mail fraud is a concept well known to the modern reader, though nowadays it is committed more often electronically than by post. The common motive for such a crime is greed, although Marius thought otherwise. With his generous heart, all he could think was that this family had been driven to such desperate acts by their extreme poverty; these were people whose lives could be turned around and made more productive with real work.

To be fair to Marius, that might have been the case with most folks, but not with this particular family. Earlier, the Thenardiers had been introduced with the notion that as a couple they were far more terrible than as separate entities. It was also noted that they had not yet fallen into true depravity. Years had passed since that time and the years had not been kind.

When Marius went to his room that night, he took the strange letters with him. As he examined them once again, there was a knock at his door. “Come in!” he called out. Marius never bothered to lock his door; he had nothing of value to steal.

It was the eldest of the two girls he had seen earlier. She was lovely, in a strange sort of way. She was coarse and skinny, but there was a life that shone from her eyes that would have arrested the heart of many a man. 

“Monsieur Marius?” she asked.

“Yes,” Marius answered, startled that she knew his name.

“Here is a letter for you.” The girl handed him the letter and proceeded to poke around his apartment. 

Marius, curious, opened the document and scanned it. It was a plea for money from a M. Jondrette and the handwriting was very familiar. He took out the other letters from his coat and did a quick comparison. The handwriting and errors were the same. 

“I can write,” the girl said, interrupting his thoughts. She found a scrap of paper and a pen and scrawled something on it. The message was brief: the cops are here. “Father taught us how.”

Marius put the pieces together. “Are these your father’s, then?” he asked, holding out his bundle to the girl.

“Yes!” The girl snatched the papers from his hands, her countenance overflowing with delight. “I needed these. I’ll deliver them right now.”

She raced to the door, and then paused with her hand upon the knob. “Monsieur Marius, I know you were very generous to us before when you helped us with our rent. Could you find it in your heart to be generous again?” She looked so hungry and so frail that Marius felt pity stirring again in his heart.

The girl had a biology like his and Marius knew that it would haunt her. When he was in school, he had been pursued by a few aggressives, but the academic environment worked in his favor. He doubted that the places frequented by the girl offered her such protection. She would always have the assumption of _availability_ about her, perhaps even after properly mated.

Marius reached into his pocket; all he had was a five-franc piece and some sous. He would need to borrow money from Courfeyrac. 

“Here.” There was not much he could do to make the girl’s life easier, but this could be a start.

She took the money, her smile lighting up her face. “Thank you. If there is anything I can do for you—“

“It’s alright,” Marius said, starting to feel uncomfortable.

The girl took the hint and took her leave. 

Curiosity gnawed away at poor Marius, he felt neglectful of the people around him. He had been so absorbed in his own personal drama of falling in love that he had failed to recognize suffering around him. He needed to do something about it. 

The Gorbeau House was filled with holes, the structure was old and badly in need of repair. As such, a clever neighbor could easily spy on the next room if he knew where to look. Marius undertook such an expedition and discovered a hole that offered a perfect view of the girl’s family without allowing Marius to be discovered.

He told himself that this invasion of privacy was necessary if he was to truly help these people from their desperate situation. Marius stood on a stool and peered in. 

Where his apartment was tiny and clean, theirs was much larger but filthy. It was a wonder that they were not more sickly people considering the squalor they lived in. Then he saw them: the youngest daughter was sitting on the bed, trying to stay out of the way; her mother was flittering about, trying to keep the mess at bay while the father scratched out letters at the small table.

To anyone who had been to a certain inn, the parents would have been recognized as one Monsieur and Madame Thenardier. The youngest girl was their daughter Azelma, while the eldest was Eponine. Marius would have been heartened and horrified to learn this bit of information; heartened to find the people that his father had implored him to assist and horrified at their condition. But as he was unaware of this, he only knew these people as the mysterious “Jondrette” from the letter.

He watched them at the work for a little while and grew disheartened. He was about to descend from his perch when the eldest girl entered the hovel. 

“Quick, someone’s coming!” Eponine exclaimed, cheeks flushed with excitement.

“Who?” M. Thenardier asked.

“The gentleman from the church,” Eponine replied.

M. Thenardier clapped his hands together in delight. “What a mark! When will they arrive?”

“Soon,” Eponine said, “he’s taking a fiacre with his daughter.”

“With the—“ Thenardier let out a harsh laugh, flashing his teeth. “That’ll get us some sympathy points. Douse the fire, love!”

Mme. Thenardier was quick to obey, stifling the little fire with water. She then pointed at Eponine. “Take the straw out from the chair.”

At first M. Thenardier looked surprised, then grinned as he saw how sad it made the room look. “Oh, that’s a good one.” He glanced around, fixing his wild gaze on the window. “Now Azelma, smash that window!” he ordered.

Mme. Thenardier placed her hands on her hips. “Now that’s going too far.” 

“Trust me,” the husband said.

Poor Azelma did as he asked. There was the sound of a window smashing and a shriek of pain. Mme. Thenardier rushed to the little girl; the child’s hand was bloody.

“What did you tell her to do that for?” the woman shrieked. “She can’t work with no hand!”

“Darling, love, pinnacle of my delight,” her husband said, “when we’re through we can buy her ten hands.”

It was an absurd statement but it seemed to do the trick.

Mme. Thenardier raised an eyebrow. “So you’ve really got something planned?”

“Of course, my love,” the man said with an oily smile. “We’ve just got to feel this mark; this sad sack of charitable giving will be easy pickings.” His wife grinned, an expression that would have been at home on a shark. She placed her arms around him and kissed his face. 

She traced finger down his cheek, almost a warning as well as a caress. “You’re not just telling me that so I won’t be angry with you?” 

“Of course not!” He actually looked offended. 

During all this Azelma continued to cry and cradle her injured hand. The other Thenardiers were a whirlwind of activity, trying to make their hovel even more depressing than it was. “Shall I play the ill little woman?” Mme. Thenardier asked, pulling a scarf around her head. She coughed a weak, fake little sound into her hand.

M. Thenardier grabbed her face and kissed her on the mouth. “My clever one.”

There was a knock on the door. Mme. Thenardier slid under the covers and moaned softly; the unfortunate Azelma held her hand, uncertain what to do. M. Thenardier answered the door, schooling his features into wretched misery. 

“Oh kind sir, please come in.” M. Thenardier bowed and entreated his victim into his lair. 

When Marius saw who it was, his heart skipped a beat. It was his love and her father! Oh Fate, to be so cruel as to lead these two good souls into such a den! For a brief moment Marius hoped that the girl would be able to sense his presence but then common sense set in. The Gorbeau House was a dreary place and if she knew that he resided here it would be humiliating. 

At that moment, Marius realized just how dismal his prospects were. He was a lawyer without a practice who made little money and lived in one of the worst boarding houses in Paris. He tried to keep a neat appearance but he was still poor. In fact, if it wasn’t for the hormones he would not have a chance with a girl like that at all.

While he was ruminating, the Thenardiers were baiting their trap. 

“As you can see, Monsieur,” M. Thenardier said, “we are in dire straits and are behind four quarters on the rent. Without sixty francs we will be turned out and it is so bitterly cold.”

“When is your rent due?” the girl’s father, Monsieur F, as Marius had started to call him, asked.

“This evening at eight o’clock,” M. Thenardier replied.

The gentleman scratched his chin. “I only have five francs on me now,” he said. “I must take my daughter home but I can be back this evening at six.”

M. Thenardier genuflected at M. F. “Thank you, my benefactor! Thank you!”

“We must be off,” M. F said and grasped his daughter’s arm. They moved to the door. 

“Six o’ clock, then?” M. Thenardier asked again.

“Yes,” the other man confirmed. He opened the door and was stopped by M. Thenardier’s hand on his shoulder.

“Sir,” the brigand said, “you have left your coat.”

“I am not leaving it,” M. F said, “I am gifting it.”

Crocodile tears welled in Thenardier’s eyes. “Bless you, bless you sir!”

Marius pushed himself away from his spyhole. Although he had witnessed the entire event, his focus was on one thing: the girl was leaving! He raced down the corridor after his lady love and her father but there was no sign of them. He moved into the street and saw a fiacre riding away.

He spotted an empty vehicle and approached it. “Follow that fiacre!” he demanded.

The driver made his own demand. “Pay in advance.”

Marius was thwarted by his own charity. He did not have the fee in his pocket. His chance at happiness was slipping away because he was nice to someone! Marius felt like screaming in frustration. 

He stormed back to his apartment, noting in the back of his mind that his neighbor was chatting with a rather suspicious looking man. Marius could not process this as he was too angered by his own failure. He opened the door to his apartment and saw the eldest Jondrette girl sitting on his bed. “What do you want?” he asked, snarling.

“You look unhappy,” Eponine said. 

Marius was not normally one for sarcasm, but this seemed like a perfect opportunity. “Really? I can’t imagine why.” 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” she offered. Eponine shifted on the bed, offering a glimpse of her cleavage. She was trying to appear coquettish but Marius was too absorbed with his own problems to notice her flirtations. 

“Do you know where that old gentleman and his daughter live?” Marius asked.

“No,” Eponine said.

“Can you find them?”

The light left the girl’s eyes. “You want to know where the lady lives?”

“Yes,” Marius said. It was a request made in anger, but the girl was actually considering it. 

Eponine hissed the words as if they were poisonous. “Fine then.” She shoved herself up and flounced herself into his space. “What will you give me?”

Marius was desperate, he actually had a chance now. “Anything.”

Satisfied, Eponine grinned. “I’ll find your lady for you.” 

She left and Marius was alone. He considered what to do next when he heard a commotion from next door.

“It was him!” M. Thenardier cried out. “I’m sure of it!”

Marius raced back to his peephole. It seemed that tonight’s drama was still unfolding. 

“That old bastard,” Mme. Thenardier was touching her mouth in shock. “That was _him_?”

“I’d bet my life on it,” M. Thenardier said.

Mme. Thenardier grabbed her husband’s arm in a death grip. “Please, tell me we’re gonna take him for everything he’s got.”

“And more,” M. Thenardier promised. He pulled his wife to him in a heated kiss. When they parted, their eyes were dark with lust for more than each other. “Buy some braziers of coal, love. We’ve got dark work tonight.”

Marius had no idea what these terrible people planned, but he did know one thing, he had to go to the police. He had to stop this madness, there was no one else who could.


	8. Part 8: The Robbery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: firebirdofthenight

Marius was frantic. He had never had occasion to speak to the police before and was uncertain how to proceed. He made his way down to the station, encountering a few unsavory characters along the way. He determined that they must be involved in the plot against Monsieur F, but he was not sure how.

It was only occur to Marius much later that what he did that day was a very brave thing. He had informed against his neighbors-- a bunch of rather unsavory characters-- and he had done so at great personal risk. Not only were the Jondrettes a concern, but his own connections to Enjolras’s group made him a target of police inquiry. Though he was not truly a member, he still had ties to men known for revolutionary activity.

For him to march into a police station and request assistance was both admirable and foolhardy. 

“May I speak to Monsieur le Commissaire de Police?” Marius asked the first person he saw.

The officer he asked was an older man with a beard shot with gray. He held a file in his hand and raised an eyebrow at Marius’s bewildered appearance. “He is not available; you may speak to me.”

Marius shook his head. “It’s a matter of grave importance!”

The officer replied, “Then I suggest you hurry.”

Marius was flustered at the officer’s rude behavior, but there was also something reassuring in the man’s frank manner. “Earlier this evening I overheard a plot. Some men are planning some harm to a generous old gentleman.”

The officer looked intrigued. “Go on.”

“My neighbor, one M. Jondrette, has been writing letters requesting money and this man, who I only know through sight, answered. Jondrette is going to do something terrible, I know it.”

The officer frowned. “Come with me to my office.” He led Marius down the hallway to a small room and gestured for the young man to sit. “Do you mean to tell me that you live at Gorbeau House?” he asked.

“Yes,” Marius replied.

The officer shuddered with horror. “Young man, there is a fine line between frugality and stupidity and you have crossed it. Once this operation is through, I suggest you move.”

Marius bristled in protest, “Excuse me—“

“Inspector Javert,” the officer prompted. “Tell me everything you heard.”

Marius explained how he came to learn of this terrible plot and of some of the men he had encountered on the way to the station. He mentioned the name “Patron-Minette” and a terrible, hungry expression crossed Javert’s face. Marius was very grateful that this man was on his side.

“Here—Pontmercy was it?” Javert reached into his desk and pulled out a pair of guns. “Take these back to your room. Hide there and watch these men. Let them do enough to hang themselves and once the situation reaches the crisis point, shoot into the air. That will be our signal to come and arrest them. If you fire too soon we will not have the evidence we need; do you understand?”

“Yes,” Marius said. He reached for the weapons, nervous at holding such things.

“Good. Do you have a pass-key?” Marius nodded. “Then give it to me,” Javert ordered.

Marius handed the Inspector his keys, butterflies dancing in his stomach. 

“Good, the hour is seven o’ clock?” Javert asked.

“Six,” Marius corrected.

Javert muttered to himself, “Then I still have time.” He then pulled out a scrap of paper and wrote a few names on it. “These are some cheap accommodations that will better suit you; the neighbors won’t try to slit your throat in your sleep.”

Marius took the paper and slipped it into his pocket. He was not looking forward to moving, but if what the Inspector said was true, then he would be much better off. For now, he had a task to fulfill and he was determined not to fail his lady or her father. 

\----

Valjean approached the Gorbeau House with a spring in his step. Since encountering the boy in the Luxembourg, he had felt Cosette drawing away from him. It had pained him to see the girl he loved as a daughter growing up, and he had no idea what to do about it. At least he and Cosette still shared a love for doing good and this little escapade would give them something to talk about.

He was also privately amused that the people he was giving succor to lived in the Gorbeau Horse. Despite its dilapidated state, Valjean held some affection for the place. It was the first home he had ever shared with Cosette and that time had been one of the happiest of his life. 

When he reached the door the wife, who had dressed herself in a rather eccentric costume, and the husband, who was wearing the coat that Valjean had gifted earlier that day, greeted him. The two girls were not present and the apartment was blazing hot. There was a fire with coals in the fireplace where none had been that morning. 

“Greetings, my benefactor!” the poor Monsieur greeted him. He waved Valjean into the apartment and the older man followed.

Something felt off. Valjean had not spent nineteen years in the galleys without learning to trust his instincts. He would keep this visit short and stay on his guard. He placed the money on the table. 

“Monsieur Fantanbou,” Valjean said, “this should cover your immediate expenses.” 

“Thank you, sir.” M. Fantanbou gestured to the table and chairs and, out of politeness, Valjean accepted a seat. 

“How is the wounded girl?” Valjean asked.

“Terrible, just awful,” M. Fantanbou said. “Her sister has taken her away to have the hand tended to. They should be back shortly.”

It would have been a reasonable explanation if Valjean had not left hours ago. He cast his eyes on the wife who was standing by the door.

“Madame Fantanbou is looking much better,” he commented. 

“An illusion, I’m afraid,” the husband said. “My dear wife is dying.” The man’s eyes narrowed.

Valjean glanced back over his shoulder, and caught the woman looking puzzled for a moment before she noticed his glare. She placed a delicate hand to her mouth and coughed.

“Oh yes,” she said in between pitiful hacks, “Monsieur Jondrette is right. I am not long for this world.”

“Jondrette?” Valjean asked. “I thought your name was Fantanbou.”

The man across the table from him hemmed and hawed about the name and Valjean knew that something was definitely wrong. He would stay only a few moments longer and make his exit. 

“And I wanted to teach my girls the paper box making trade!” Jondrette began to drone on about paper boxes and the mechanics of making them.

Out of the corner of Valjean’s eye, he noticed a strange man entering the room and hiding himself on the bed behind Jondrette. He was masked and he wore no shirtsleeves. “Who is that?” he asked, startled at the man’s appearance.

Jondrette waved a dismissive hand. “He’s just a neighbor.” The man then continued to ramble on, this time about a painting. Jondrette pulled a signboard from behind the table; it looked rather familiar.

Another man glided into the room and Valjean grew nervous. He needed to make his exit soon before something happened. “Excuse me, I must be going,” Valjean said, moving to stand.

“But I said I had a painting to sell,” Jondrette protested. 

“It is a signboard from a tavern,” Valjean retorted. “It is worth about three francs.”

Jondrette smiled then, showing all of his teeth. “Let’s put an end to this farce. Do you know me, Monsieur?”

In that moment, Valjean did. It was that damned innkeeper and the woman was his wife. He had not recognized their smell; too many years had passed since their brief encounter for him to remember. Earlier that day he had been too busy watching Cosette and being blinded by his own pity to recognize that he was entering a mousetrap. “Thenardier,” he muttered. 

He moved to flee but the men in the hovel fell upon him. Valjean fought with his tremendous strength, but others poured in from outside the door to join the fray. He was unused to brawling and there were too many men. Forced down into the chair, cruel hands pinned him in place.

“Gag him,” the Thenardier woman ordered.

Rough cloth was shoved into his mouth and his hands and legs bound with rope. Valjean struggled, but it was no use. When the work was done, the men retreated back to the corner of the room. 

Thenardier sauntered toward him, looking much too satisfied. “All trussed up like a Christmas turkey.”

“Looks more like a goose to me,” the Madame chimed in. The terrible duo laughed; their mockery chaffed at Valjean’s pride.

“Is the carriage ready?” Thenardier asked one of the men.

“It’s waiting right out front,” the man replied.

“Good.” Thenardier drew up the other chair and plopped down into it. He kicked his feet up on top of the table. “Now Monsieur, I have a proposition for you.”

Valjean scowled, his mouthing drying out around the gag. There was nothing that he would give to these scoundrels.

“You see, you took away our little Lark,” Thenardier said, “the apple of our eye and gave us little recompense.”

Fifteen hundred francs was hardly a sum to sneeze at. 

“She was such a burden on us,” Mme. Thenardier continued, “especially with her illnesses and all the care we lavished on her.” 

Thenardier got to the point: “So what we want is reimbursement.” 

Of course, they didn’t care a whit about the girl; they only wanted money. Valjean could feel his gorge rising. He twisted his wrist a fraction and felt a small object fall into his palm. It was a small tool he had created back in prison; he had not had to use such a thing in over a decade. He hoped it would not fail him now. 

“So what you will do is write a letter to our dear sweet child.” Thenardier pushed a piece of paper and a pen over to Valjean. “You will tell her that she should come here right away, and my lovely wife will deliver it. The Lark will accompany her in a fiacre where one of my associates will join them. The girl will be taken somewhere safe until you can deliver to me two hundred thousand crowns.”

The tool was working perfectly; Valjean could feel his bonds loosening. The tool was a hollowed out sou with a watch spring inside. All these years later, it could still cut. 

“Of course, if the money fails to come--” Thenardier’s mouth curved into a sinister smile, “it won’t be the first time our Lark has endured hardship.” The man’s eyes then indicated the fireplace and the white-hot poker within. “And if the Lark doesn’t concern you then we’ve more personal methods of persuasion.” 

Since leaving Toulon, Valjean had rarely experienced the intense rage of his aggressive nature. The first time had been when Javert had returned to M. sur M. injured, this was the second time. Javert had been a grown man in a dangerous profession; Cosette was still an innocent girl. For Thenardier to even dare to threaten her made him want to rend these villains limb from limb. 

The vile man yanked the cloth out of Valjean’s mouth. Valjean coughed, willing his parched throat to work. Thenardier leaned close, awaiting an answer. 

Valjean said only this: “No.”

“No!” Thenardier was shocked. “Did you not hear me earlier, old man? If you don’t do what I ask, I will—“

“You will what?” Valjean’s voice was filled with a dark menace that stopped Thenardier short. 

“He’s making a fool of you,” Mme. Thenardier hissed. 

The husband turned to snap at his wife and, in that moment, Valjean acted. He threw off his bonds and rose to his feet. The villains rushed to subdue him. 

Valjean roared, “Sit down!” The startled thieves obeyed, swayed by this superior man. He had not even had to use the Compulsion to make them do his bidding.

Valjean was a man who had known the agony of toil, the misery of chains, the depression of imprisonment. He had known the joys of love and the heartbreak of having it ripped away; he was losing the girl he had raised to time and the realities of growing up; Valjean lived with a guilt that gnawed at his spirit every hour of every day; he feared that at any moment he would be overtaken by his baser nature, that salvation was forever beyond his reach. These petty men with their petty threats held no power over him. 

“If you think that I will be cowed by pain, you are sadly mistaken.” Valjean moved to the fireplace and seized the hot poker. He rolled up his left sleeve and with a defiant glare pressed the scolding iron to his own arm. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air. Thenardier and his men looked on in horror; they had the stomach for torture but not for that sort of self-inflicted mutilation. 

The room was held in a standoff, neither side quite knowing what to do about the other. Suddenly, the tableau was broken by the appearance of a single sheet of paper. Thenardier snatched it from where it fell. He read the words written upon it and cursed under his breath. “It’s from Eponine, the cops are here.”

Chaos broke out. The thieves scrambled about, looking for an avenue of escape. Thenardier had procured a rope ladder earlier that day and he tossed the ends of it out the window. Seeing an opportunity, the brigands fought among themselves as to who had the privilege of climbing out first.

Thenardier had had enough. “What the hell should we all do then? Draw names out of a hat?”

“Would you like to borrow mine?”

At the sound of the strange voice, every occupant in the room turned to look. Valjean felt his heart leap into his throat.

It was Javert and he was holding out his bicorn, face carefully blank.


	9. Part 9: The Wound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta: firebirdofthenight

“As you can see, it is a fine hat,” Javert said, voice deadpan. “But I suggest you hurry if you are going to make use of it. The other officers will be here any moment.”

The Thenardier woman snarled in rage, filled with the dark fury that men ignore at the risk of their own lives. Her small hands ripped a huge paving stone from the window; she held it aloft ready to crush in the Inspector’s head. Unfortunately for Mme. Thenardier, her determination far outweighed her ability. She promptly fell over. 

Javert was not impressed. 

He replaced his hat upon his head and stared down the thieves. “Since the rest of you seem to be sensible, you should all take your leave through the door in an orderly fashion. It is far more civilized than the window.”

Valjean was astonished at Javert’s manner. He had been witness to a few of the man’s arrests back in M. sur M. but Javert’s tranquility was fascinating. He was a man in complete control of the situation even when surrounded by dangerous men.

Without warning, one of the thugs produced a gun from his shirt and shoved it at Thenardier. “You do it, I don’t dare.”

Valjean felt the hairs rise on the back on his neck. He would never make it. If Thenardier fired the gun Javert would be dead. The knowledge of it was a screaming, angry thing in Valjean’s breast. He had failed to protect Javert before; please God don’t let him fail again!

Javert rolled his eyes. “It won’t work.”

Thenardier raised the weapon, aiming straight for Javert’s heart. Valjean barely held back a cry of despair.

The former innkeeper pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He pulled the trigger again and heard nothing but a dry click. A pin dropping in the room would have sounded like an avalanche.

Javert broke the silence, “I told you it would misfire.”

At that, the villains threw down their arms amid a shower of curses. They found no point in fighting such a man. 

Valjean sank down onto the bed, overwhelmed with relief. The police entered and began their work. To Valjean’s relief, everyone ignored the old man who was close to weeping. While the other officers placed Thenardier’s gang in restraints, Javert approached the seated man.

“Rest assured Monsieur that these men will be brought to justice,” Javert said.

Valjean tried to hide his face but he could feel Javert’s eyes boring into him, willing him to look up. The older man finally obeyed, his gaze meeting his former paramour’s. Javert’s face was stern, the very picture of an officer of the law. He mouthed but a single word and it told Valjean everything: leave. 

Valjean felt all the breath leave his lungs. Javert was letting him go, was letting him escape. For the first time in ages, hope blossomed in his soul; perhaps there was still a chance for the two of them.

Then Javert turned away and continued addressing the other occupants of the room. While everyone was distracted, Valjean made his move. The ladder was still in place by the window and, without a sound, Valjean descended down into the street.

He offered a quick prayer of thanks to God for giving him the foresight to bring his trusted tool and for Javert’s mercy. As he raced off into the night, the wound on his arm throbbed in agony. He would have to tend to the burn and it would take time to heal. Valjean could not risk further contact with Javert yet; he needed to be healthy and he had to be sure that Cosette was no longer in danger.

Several streets down he found a fiacre willing to take him home. Valjean rested his head against the back of the seat and was asleep before the vehicle began to move. 

\----

Marius tore himself away from his spyhole. He had been unable to fire the warning shot; the revelation that his neighbor Jondrette was really Thenardier had thrown him for a loop. Here was a man he was supposed to protect placing others’ lives in danger. He could not stand idly by, but he also could not act as the Inspector had expected.

It was Eponine’s discarded note that had given him the inspiration to throw it into the room. It had caused the chaos he had wanted, though Thenardier had still ended up in chains. There was little that Marius could do at this point except take the Inspector’s advice. He packed up his scant few belongings and took off into the night. 

It would be over an hour later before Inspector Javert came looking for him and by then, he was long gone.

\---- 

The Café Musain was abuzz with activity. There were too many labor groups and not enough communication between them. Enjolras planned to have his lieutenants go out into the night and gauge the men’s eagerness. Timing was of the outmost importance; if they acted too quickly or too late then the entire revolution would fail.

Enjolras had been hoping that he could convince Marius to talk to one of them, but he had been absent from the meetings and when he did show up all he talked about was some girl.

The door to the backroom opened and Enjolras lifted his head. Speak of the devil. It was Marius, looking rather haggard and holding a few bags.

Enjolras, the blond Adonis of the people, had no time for this nonsense. “If you are here to talk about your mystery lady, you can leave!”

Marius lowered his head, his shoulders slumped in a submissive posture. Enjolras had never seen the young man looked so despondent. “I have no home,” Marius said, “I need a place to stay.”

Enjolras was a hard man, a dedicated man, but he was still a man. Immediate concern for a friend outweighed other considerations for the moment. 

“What happened?” Combeferre asked. He looked over at Enjolras, as if to ask permission to pursue this line of questioning. Enjolras nodded his consent; something had happened this night, and he wanted to know what it was.

Marius slumped down into a chair, his bags rested against his knees. “My neighbors tried to rob a gentleman,” Marius explained. “I informed on them to the police but now--“

“Were you forced out?” Combeferre asked.

“Not exactly. The inspector in charge strongly suggested I find other lodgings.” Grantaire offered Marius a glass of wine, which the young man took with gratitude. Although Marius was not one to imbibe, today seemed like a good day for it. “After seeing what these men were capable of, I agreed with the inspector.” Marius pulled out a sheet of paper from his pocket. “He gave me this list but it’s too late to start looking tonight.”

Enjolras snatched the list from Marius’s hand. “A policeman gave you this?”

“Yes,” Marius said. “He said that they were cheap, safe places to stay.”

Excitement thrummed through Enjolras’s veins. “You may have given us a something very useful, Marius.”

The young man was confused. “What do you mean?”

“It is possible that these places house police informants,” Enjolras explained. Knowing the enemy’s activities would give the people the edge that they needed. Even if Marius wasn’t fully dedicated to their group, he still had something to contribute. “I’ll get some of the men to vet them for you and see if they are safe.”

Marius looked relieved. “Thank you, Enjolras.”

Enjolras raised a hand. “Do not thank me yet, you still need a temporary home. Can anyone take Marius for a few days?” 

Courfeyrac had already lived with Marius and understood the other man’s habits, he immediately volunteered. “He can stay with me.”

For the first time that night, Marius smiled. 

Enjolras felt proud of his people. Although he had wanted to, it would have been impossible for Enjolras to allow Marius into his home. He had too many documents, too many seditious tracts sealed in his rooms to risk bringing in anyone else. Marius was not ready to die for their revolution and Enjolras felt it was unfair to ask someone to endanger themselves before their time.

“Get Marius home,” he ordered Courfeyrac, “we’ll give you instructions later.” Courfeyrac nodded and helped Marius with his luggage. Before they left, Enjolras clapped a hand on Marius’s shoulder. “Take heart, tomorrow is another day.” 

\----

The burn was more serious than Valjean had thought. He should have gone to a doctor, but the old fear of arrest and separation from Cosette kept him away. Infection set in and Valjean spent over a month in a delirium of fever. All thoughts of a reunion with Javert and of Cosette’s future were put on hold as he suffered through daily agony.

Valjean did not even have the luxury of blaming Thenardier for this misfortune as he had caused the injury to himself. He avoided Cosette’s questions-- he could not later recall how-- but submitted to her tender administrations. Although the burn was a festering evil upon Valjean’s arm, it served a good purpose: it distracted the two of them from their other troubles.

When Valjean had recovered somewhat, he discovered that he had told Cosette a little about the attempted robbery, but not all of the details. Even in his ill state, he had been discreet. He encouraged Cosette to resume her walks in the garden since she enjoyed them. Valjean was still too terrified of being seen to enjoy such an outing but he would not deny his Cosette anything. 

Cosette herself had been growing more and more depressed the longer she kept away from the mysterious young man. She did not know his name, but his form had been carved into the memory of her heart. She loved him with a deep intensity, but it was tempered by concern for her father. The walks in the garden restored her spirit, allowing her a glimpse of the world outside.

On occasion some young men in uniform would parade by, and she took some pleasure in looking at them, but all it did was remind her of her young man: the one she could not find. Cosette knew that the longer she stayed by her father’s side, the less likely it would be that she could relocate the boy from the Gardens. If only she knew his name! 

Still, someday her father would leave again on his excursions and Cosette would have some time to herself. Perhaps then she would venture again to the Luxembourg and inquire about her young man. This thought gave her some peace and a thrill at the boldness of action. All she had to do was wait.

\----

Marius settled back into living with Courfeyrac. They had got along well last time and this time was no different. Marius did resent losing his independence but until les Amis had time to investigate the list he was stuck where he was. The hardest part of Marius’ daily routine was finding the motivation to work again.

He had seen his love’s father and made sure that the man was safe but now he had nothing to show for it. Marius still had no idea who his lady actually was; with this lack of information he was stuck in a holding pattern. He struggled every day with the urge to dream and hope against the mundane needs of his existence. Yet every time he opened a tome to translate, the words seemed to swim before him.

Daily life was monotonous, a sea of necessities battering against a shore of wants. He took to wandering about, trying to find some inspiration, some sign. One day he ran into the old churchwarden who had known his father. This softhearted man told him of a place called “The Garden of the Lark,” and Marius felt his will returning.

He sought out the place and was overwhelmed by its beauty. He came everyday, secretly hoping that his lady would appear; after all, hadn’t she been known as the Lark at one time? 

Marius began bringing his work with him-- and although he spent more time with his head in the clouds than in the books, he did manage to eke out a living. He remembered with horror the moment that his lady had entered the Jondrette apartment and his own disgrace at his situation. Shame was not a great motivator at the best of times but in this situation it was enough for Marius. 

One day, two months after the ill-fated robbery, a feminine figure appeared. It was not the Lark, as Marius had hoped, but the Jondrette girl Eponine. She was still lovely, though her face held that drawn thinness that only hunger can bring. Her eyes lit up when she saw Marius and she raced toward him, her skirts billowing around her knees. 

“Monsieur Marius!” she greeted. 

Marius accepted the salutation, but he would rather have been left alone. “Hello, Eponine.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “You know my name,” she whispered.

“Yes.” Marius’s irritation grew. He had been sympathetic to Eponine once, but since her father had tried to rob a man those feelings had cooled. “What do you want?”

Eponine frowned, curious about Marius’s reaction. “You don’t seem happy to see me.”

Marius rolled his eyes. To be fair, the girl did not know about Marius’s involvement in her father’s arrest or that he had witnessed the entire incident; but Marius was still understandable disgusted with the whole family. “I am not in the mood.”

“But I have news for you,” Eponine said.

“Do you?”

“Yes.” Eponine placed her hands on her hips in triumph. “I’ve found your lady.”

Marius felt all the breath get knocked out of him. Too many questions wanted to pour out of his mouth at the same time: where is she? How did you find her? Is she well? But the first thing he said expressed a different concern. “Have you told your father about this?”

Eponine started in surprise. “What? No!”

Marius stood, gripping the girl’s arms in his hands. “Promise me you won’t tell him. Don’t give him the address.”

The girl looked at the serious turn of Marius’s eyes and the determined curve of his mouth. Although he was not interested, Eponine could not help her infatuation. “All right,” she agreed, voice soft. “I won’t tell him anything.”

The gratitude on Marius’s face nearly broke her heart. She had to look away. “Come,” she said. “I don’t know the number, but I know the house.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Follow me, but don’t get too close. For you to be seen with me would be—“ she struggled to find the word—“unseemly.”

Marius nodded and kept his distance. He was one step closer to seeing his lady. Would she still remember him? Would she still care or had too much time passed? Cowardice would leave him in the dark, now was a time for bravery. He would move forward.


	10. Part 10: A Heart Full of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: firebirdofthenight

Night had fallen and Papa had retired for the evening. Cosette was restless and took to the garden. Seeing the wild greenery in the moonlight stirred a beautiful longing in her blood. It was not a well-tended garden; the flowers and trees grew with impunity with only the occasional effort at pruning impeding their growth. Cosette found that she preferred it that way; it was like her own forest in the depths of the city.

She let her feet follow the paving stones, carrying her through the thicket without conscious thought. Her mind wandered, falling to the fancies to which girls on the verge of womanhood are prone. 

There was a rustle in the foliage behind her. Cosette turned toward the sound, heart thudding in her chest. In this part of the house, it was only herself and the housekeeper. Her father kept to the opposite side. If something happened—

She only caught a glimpse of a male figure, someone dashing away. Part of her wanted to follow, part of her wanted to run away. The more adventurous side won out. She made her way back through the garden, keeping quiet as a mouse. No one was there.

Cosette went back to her rooms disturbed. She wondered if she should mention what she saw to her father. If they were truly in danger it would be the right thing to do, but if it was only her imagination-- 

It was better to look foolish than to be harmed.

The next morning at breakfast, Cosette mentioned her little escapade. Papa laughed, claiming that it must just be girlish imagination, but the look in his eyes was troubled. Cosette was sheltered, but she was far from stupid. She knew that their lives were unusual, that Papa was hiding from something or someone; she just did not know what. 

Later, Papa investigated and declared that what Cosette saw was just the shadow of a stone. A year or so ago, she would have believed him -- but Papa was too nervous for Cosette to have complete faith in his answer. She went out into the garden again that night, after Papa was asleep. She chose a spot where she could hide herself and observe the area near the gate. In her range of vision was the great stone bench where the paths branched off. Someone sneaking into the thicket would have to pass by there. Cosette was determined to have the truth.

She waited. It was over twenty minutes later when a pair of hands appeared holding a sheath of papers and a stone. The arms attached to them moved further into the moonlight. Whoever this figure was, was setting the objects on the bench. Cosette moved with a speed she did not know she possessed. She grasped the intruder’s wrist.

A gasp of surprise and she could see the intruder for who he was: it was her young man. “And what were you depositing in my garden?” she asked, sounding braver than she was.

“A note, Mademoiselle,” the young man admitted. Even in the darkness, she could tell that his face was flushed with embarrassment. “It contains all the things I could not tell you.”

Cosette smiled. “Well, I think that they would be sweeter in your own voice, Monsieur.”

The young man gulped.

She sat down on the bench, gently tugging the young man in place next to her. He picked up the papers, swallowed and began to read. They were words of passion and tenderness, filled with all the pretty metaphors flung around by poets trying to describe that wonderful ache of blooming infatuation; that moment when the entire world seems to revolve around a single person; that terrible pain of separation and the ecstasy of possibility. As the young man spoke his voice trembled and then fell into a rhythm, his confidence growing even as his ears reddened.

Cosette leaned her head against his shoulder, letting the verse wash over her. She had been right; the words were sweeter coming from his lips. When he was done, he set the tome on his lap. He looked at her with hopeful anticipation. “I—“ he glanced away. “My name is Marius Pontmercy.”

“And I’m Cosette,” she answered. 

“You—I—“

Cosette understood his meaning in the way that all new lovers do. She raised her head and cupped his cheek. “I love you too.” She brought their lips together. It was the one kiss they shared in their early courtship and the only one that they needed. It was a vow, chaste and full of promise. 

\----

The spent the next month together, always in the evenings after the rest of the household had settled in. It was for an hour or two at most, but those hours were blissful eternity. 

Their talks were filled with the foolish babblings of all youth; dreams and matters that others would consider to be of little consequence. They held hands; they had no desire for greater physical intimacy than that. Cosette was still too young to know what else she could want and Marius would not push for further until she was ready, until he knew that they would be together always.

One night, Cosette said, “My father is going away on one of his excursions tomorrow. I would like you to escort me around town.”

Marius felt sweat bead on his forehead. “The two of us? Unsupervised?”

“We’re unchaperoned now,” Cosette pointed out. “Please, I want to see more of Paris than what Papa has shown me.” 

“All right,” Marius said. “I warn you, I don’t have much money.”

Cosette smiled. “As if I have ever cared about that.”

Marius flushed. “So your father must be feeling better then? That wound looked very serious.”

This statement roused Cosette from her lover’s haze. “How do you know about that?”

Marius realized that he had never discussed the robbery and his own part in thwarting it. He was surprised at himself that it had never come up. “I used to live at the house where they attempted to rob your father,” Marius admitted. It was painful, but better to do it now than later. “I overheard my neighbor’s plot and informed the police.”

Cosette’s eyes widened. “That’s how they knew where Papa was. Marius, you saved his life!”

Marius scratched the back of his head. “I guess I did.”

“Oh!” Cosette threw her arms around him, holding him in a tight embrace. “My dear, brave Marius.”

One could not blame Marius for reveling in this attention. When she was done squeezing her love, Cosette was struck by a strange fancy. “Do you remember the names of any of the policemen?”

“I do actually,” Marius said. He did not see why this was important. “One of them was very rude. Why do you ask?” 

Cosette traced her finger on the back of Marius’ hand. “What was this policeman’s name?”

It did not take long for Marius to recall it. “Javert, he was an Inspector I think.”

Her finger stopped moving. A strange excitement stirred in Cosette’s veins. “Oh, can it be?” she whispered.

“Cosette?” Marius was puzzled at the girl’s behavior. She was staring off into space; the young man felt rather put out. “Should I be jealous?”

“No,” Cosette said. She laughed and shook her head. “You may just have ensured the happiness of more than just myself.”

“I don’t understand.”

She turned to him, full of excitement. “I feared that when we came together that my father might be alone, but now that is no longer the case.”

Now poor Marius was really confused.

“If this Javert is who I think he is, then he was my Papa’s mate,” Cosette explained.

Marius let the words sink in for a moment and was overcome with horror. “Inspector Javert is your mother?”

Cosette laughed again; Marius could spend a lifetime listening to that sound. “No, Papa raised me after my mother passed. The good Inspector is not my mother.”

Marius wondered if it would be rude to look too relieved at that statement. He went with the more neutral, “I see.”

“Marius, do you know where we can find this Inspector Javert?” Cosette asked.

The young man shrugged. “I know the station, why?”

Cosette settled herself close as if conspiring with Marius. “I want to spend some time tomorrow looking for this man. If we are unsuccessful after an hour then I will call off the search, but I would like to try.”

His beloved was an enigma. “I’m sorry, Cosette, I don’t understand.”

“Papa still thinks of me as a child,” Cosette said. “I believe that he will be more tolerant of our love affair if he is distracted by his own.”

In that moment, Marius added the adjective “clever” to the list of words he used to describe Cosette in his mind. His darling’s father was a formidable man and Marius was not looking forward to the day when the man discovered that his daughter was out courting behind his back. “I believe that is a splendid plan,” he said. “We will venture out tomorrow!”

\---- 

It was late May and the weather was finally starting to turn around, much to Javert’s relief. As it was, the warm air was the only thing making Javert’s rounds pleasant lately. The cholera was devastating the population, and murmurs of unrest were increasing day by day. The working class was dissatisfied and the bourgeois were becoming complacent. Paris was a powder keg and it would not be too long before she exploded.

“Excuse me, Monsieur l’Inspector.” 

Javert turned to the sound of the soft voice. It was a young woman who had just abandoned her girlhood. Her hair was gold, her bonnet blue, and her air one of innocence. She was quite becoming. Javert bowed his head. “May I help you, Mademoiselle?” 

“Do you happen to know a policeman by the name of Javert?” she asked.

Why would such a girl be inquiring about him? “I am Javert.”

The young woman’s countenance seemed to glow; her eyes brightened and her lips parted to reveal a delighted smile. She tittered. Javert had never witnessed such a spectacle before and was quite baffled. The young lady laid her hand upon his arm. “I believe you are acquainted with my father.”

Javert raised an eyebrow at her boldness. “I doubt it, Mademoiselle—“

The young lady seemed to remember her manners. She dipped her head slightly and replied, “Cosette Fauchelevent, Monsieur Inspector.”

The name sounded familiar, though Javert could not place why. He needed to probe for more information. “It does not sound familiar,” he said.

“It shouldn’t,” Mlle. Fauchelevent said. “That’s not my father’s real name.”

Now Javert was intrigued. “Why would your father see fit to change it?”

“I do not know, Inspector,” Mlle. Fauchelevent confessed, “he has never told me the reason, I just know that it is so. Just as I know that you knew him in Montreuil-sur-Mer, quite well actually.” She was being coquettish when she said this last piece.

Javert’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what you are implying—“

“You came home from arresting some robbers on a highway and Papa said that you had a bruise here.” Mlle. Fauchelevent touched her cheek. “And he was very cross with you, in fact—“

Comprehension dawned on Javert, heating his blood. This was the whore’s child and the man she was talking about—

Javert gripped the young lady’s arm. “This is not a discussion fit for public consumption,” he hissed under his breath. He glanced around, there were not many people and no one was paying them any mind. 

Mlle. Fauchelevent smiled, proud of herself. “So you do know my father?”

“Yes,” Javert said, voice low, “I damn well know Jean Valjean.” 

A cloud went over Mlle. Fauchelevent’s face. “Valjean?”

Javert could have cursed himself; of course Valjean would keep things from her. “Listen Mademoiselle, I do not know what your father has told you, and it is not my place to disabuse you of any notions that you may have,” Javert said. “I only have one question: did he send you?” 

Javert had to know. The last he had seen of the man was at the Gorbeau House. There was a part of him that had expected Valjean to seek him out and was disappointed when he had never showed. Javert was no longer angry with Valjean but there was still much that they had to discuss. There were too many lies and too many things left unsaid. Was the ex-con so much of a coward that he had to use an intermediary, that he couldn’t face Javert himself? 

“No,” she answered. “I came of my own accord.”

Now Javert was confused. “Why?”

The young woman continued, “Papa has been ill with an injury these past few months.”

“He was injured?” Javert hadn’t noticed anything wrong the night of the robbery except—

“He was burned on the arm,” Mlle. Fauchelevent said.

“That explained the smell,” Javert muttered to himself. “I still don’t see why you’ve sought me out.”

“Because I am growing up, Inspector.” She said this as it is was the most obvious answer in the world. “I love my father, but my heart is expanding to embrace another. Someday I will move away.” Mlle. Fauchelevent lowered her gaze, as if realizing a sudden truth. “And I will not tolerate my father being alone; not when I know that there is someone out there who loves him.”

Javert could feel her aggressive nature pressing against him, willing him to listen. He heard her words but there was much that she did not understand. Javert had years of experience with regret, with remorse; he had felt the intimate dance of ecstasy and betrayal; and, most importantly, he knew of his history with Jean Valjean. “You are presumptuous, Mademoiselle.”

“Am I?” Mlle. Fauchelevent stood firm. “I do not know what happened between you, but I believe that there is always a second chance. Please come to tea at the house.” She grasped his hand and pressed a folded piece of paper to it. “Papa misses you,” she said. “He has mourned your loss for years, please don’t keep him waiting any longer.”

They say that a heart of wood cannot soften, but new growth can sprout even from a dead forest. Javert sighed; the timing of this event could not be worse. “I must temporarily decline, Mademoiselle,” he said.

Mlle. Fauchelevant could not hide her disappointment. Javert resolved to make her understand. “There is much unrest in the city,” he explained, “and I cannot shirk my duty in good conscience, even if it is for something I greatly desire.”

Mlle. Fauchelevent nodded, accepting this for now. “We will be expecting you soon, Inspector.” Her tone broached no argument. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed the older man on the cheek. He startled back in astonishment. “Please,” she said, pleading with him, “do not allow your heart to suffer for the sake of duty again.”

Javert hardly noticed her departure. He opened the note and read the words, it was an address: Rue Plumet. He crumpled the paper in his fist; he did not have time for distractions. Javert could wait until the rabble had quieted. There was no point in starting a life anew if he allowed the world to burn in flames.


	11. Part 11:  The Volunteer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: firebirdofthenight, who deserves so many kudos for putting up with my shit this week. You have been fabulous and understanding and supportive of my crazy output.

A storm was brewing on the horizon. When there are too many angered people, too many filled with discontent, wrath bubbles forth from the broken, and creates a gale wind demanding change. Sometimes justice comes from a shower of rhetoric; more often it comes from a torrent of blood. These are the markings of great events, but even during great events the lives of individuals do not cease.

Small human dramas play out everyday against the backdrop of war and suffering. Oftentimes they can seem petty against a larger framework, but without these tiny affairs life is not worth living. In that first week of June 1832 a tragedy was starting in a garden, one quite familiar to the readers. 

Tears lingered in the corners of Cosette’s eyes, her mouth trembling. “We are moving away!” Composure gone, she clenched her fists in Marius’ coat and buried her face against his chest. 

Marius’ arms fell around Cosette, clinging to her as if that would be enough to keep her with him. “Why? When?”

Her voice was a tiny choked sob. “Within the week. He’s taking us to England.”

The sensation of impending loss hindered Marius’ thoughts. “Can we stop it?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” Cosette hated feeling this weak, this childish. She was the aggressive, and she was supposed to protect Marius; but all she wanted was for him to hold her, to make the pain stop. He was older and wiser; Cosette was still so inexperienced in the ways of the world. He had to save them; he had to!

“Oh, did Papa feel this helpless with Javert?” Cosette whispered. She recalled her harsh words to him, flinching at her own callus behavior. Her eyes stung with the salt of tears and the ravages of guilt. “Oh, oh Papa. I’m so sorry.”

She could have gone to her father directly, told him of her feelings -- but the idea filled her with terror. Only a week or so before, she had accosted a police officer in broad daylight, but this was different. She did not need Inspector Javert’s love and respect, but she needed her Papa’s.

Marius stroked her back, at a loss for what to do. Decisive action was needed, something bold. But Marius was a submissive; it was difficult for him to act outside of his nature. If only he had someone who could do it for him—

A flash of insight struck Marius to the core. It was humiliating, but he could swallow his pride if it would secure him the woman he loved. “I have an idea,” he told Cosette. “I don’t know if this will work, but I have to try.”

Cosette wiped her eyes, the ends of her sleeves getting wet. “What is your plan?”

“I can’t tell you. I do not want to get your hopes up but I will not be able to meet you tomorrow evening,” Marius said.

She shook her head in protest. “But if this is all the time we have—“

“If this works we’ll have all the time in the world.” Marius cupped her cheek. “Please believe in me; I need your strength.”

She stared into his eyes, trying to gauge his conviction. What she found satisfied her and she nodded, pressing a kiss to his palm. “All right.”

“I will leave my address in case something goes wrong,” Marius said. Lacking ink and paper, he used the edge of a knife to carve into the wall. 

“But it won’t go wrong. You’ll be here early the day after tomorrow, nine o’clock,” Cosette said. “Promise me.”

Marius kissed the top of her forehead, “I promise.” He waited until she lifted her chin; there was something else he needed to say, he needed to see her eyes. “Cosette, you know that I’d rather die than live without you.” His words were solemn, a vow made with all sincerity. 

“Don’t say such things,” Cosette said, her voice low. She embraced her beloved one last time. “We will be together, you’ll see.”

They held each other, each reluctant to let go, each frightened of what the next day would bring. 

\----

Javert was livid. “This is unacceptable!” he shouted. The other officers in the room cringed back, with the exception of Cloutier. Javert ignored the other man and continued to rant. “I am gone for a week and the entire Patron-Minette gang is back on the streets! How did this happen?” 

It was absurd; Javert had just come back from visiting Lambert and meeting his new godchild to discover that Thenardier -- alias Jondrette -- and his men had escaped. With everything else going on in Paris, this was just icing on the cake. 

“Sir,” one of the young officers, one D’Aramtiz, attempted to answer, “the guards discovered a rope fashioned from the sheets and the sentry had been drugged with wine.”

Javert ran a hand through his hair. “This is an embarrassment. First Montparnasse doesn’t even deign to show up at the caper and Claquesous escapes from police custody before he even gets to prison. And now this!”

“Inspector,” D’Aramtiz offered, “the Patron-Minette’s escape is not the fault of the department.”

“True,” Javert said. “You would expect the jailors to keep hold of the jailed.” He cast a critical eye on Cloutier. “Much like the police agents should have held onto Claquesous.”

The older man bristled. “What are you saying?”

“Just curious, Cloutier,” Javert said, stalking toward the other officer, “weren’t you the one who placed Claquesous in custody that night?”

Cloutier snarled and opened his mouth to let forth a stream of curses. Before he could say anything, Officer Mynatt poked his head in. “Prefect Gisquet has an announcement.” 

Disagreement temporarily put aside, Cloutier and Javert followed their fellow officers out the door. The hall was crowded with policemen, agents and spies; it was difficult to move or breathe. The air was electric with tension; words of sedition had been spreading in the streets like wildfire. Police spies had been bringing in reports of secret meetings and weapon gathering for weeks. Everyone in the room knew that their mettle was to be tested soon; the question was when?

Prefect Gisquet stood on a box, towering above the common policemen. His face was grave, his lips a tight pressed line. The tension in the room increased as they waited for him to speak. Gisquet raised his hand and pronounced: “General Lamarque is dead.”

Silence. 

Javert knew that this was coming; the man had been ill for a while but it was still terrible news. He had been a rallying point for the people, someone that they all respected. When he first became confined to his quarters what had started as malicious whispers became bold shouts. Now that he was gone, how long were the people going to be content with words?

“We have intelligence that the labor communities and the student groups will be planning something on the day of Gen. Lamarque’s funeral,” Gisquet said. “We need volunteers to infiltrate the inevitable riot and discover their plans.”

Low mutters and soft talk started among the officers. Gisquet allowed it, knowing that his men were weighing their options, building up their courage. 

Officer Mynatt crowded close to Javert. He looked confused at the announcement. He leaned over to his superior officer. “I had already volunteered for this mission, Sir.”

“Yes,” Javert replied, keeping his voice low, “but your wife has just borne you a daughter and he--” Javert jerked his head toward Gisquet – “knows that.”

“Sir, I can’t ask--“

“The Prefect is generously trying to save your life,” Javert snapped. “I suggest you keep quiet.”

A loud gruff voice cut through the murmurs. “Javert has done undercover work before.” Everyone turned to the sound; it was Cloutier. 

Javert scowled; what was the man’s game?

“Yes, but it’s never been for something like this,” Mynatt piped up. “I mean, Javert hardly looks like a student.”

There were a few chuckles in the crowd. Javert rolled his eyes; did Mynatt want to die? 

“True, but there will be tradesmen as well,” Cloutier said. “I’m sure the good Inspector could pass for a common laborer.” Cloutier looked far too pleased with himself. Javert wondered how pleased he would be with a fist against his jaw.

“I don’t see how—“

Javert was tired of these two men arguing over him as if he weren’t even present. “Officer Mynatt, stand down.” His voice was quiet but the sound of it rang through the hall like a shot. “No one is going to let you volunteer for this. Stop.”

“Will you take his place then?” Gisquet asked. 

Javert considered it. If he did not, then Mynatt would most likely be sent to his death. The officer was young and had just become a father. Although Javert had no desire to meet his maker, he did not know if anyone else would step forward. Was it just to let this man die to satisfy his own cowardice? 

“Yes, Sir,” Javert answered.

Gisquet nodded, he did not seem happy but he accepted the decision. “We will discuss your instructions in an hour. Everyone else is dismissed.” 

Mynatt clasped a hand to Javert’s shoulder, his eyes filled with sorrow and thankfulness. The Inspector just shrugged. He was doing his duty, nothing more. He could see Cloutier watching them from the corner of his eyes. 

He did not understand what Cloutier was doing. Why did the other man set him up like this? It was not in Javert’s nature to glean the motives of such a man. Javert had known heartbreak, had known fear, but he had not known irrational jealousy or the sting of rejection. He did not know how lust could be twisted to a dark desire to hurt, to kill the object of that misplaced affection. 

Unfortunately, Javert would not be the only victim of such black emotions.

\----

The first night out from behind bars was always the most difficult. Thenardier knew that he would have to bust the missus out soon, but he wanted to have a little coin in his pocket first. Brujon, one of his acquaintances, had tried to set up a job at the house on Rue Plumet, but Eponine’s investigations had turned up nothing, or biscuit in the parlance of the criminal sect.

Still, now that they were out it was still worth looking into. Brujon had been convinced of the place’s worth by its location and the fact that only two women inhabited it. Eponine had looked into the matter, but she was still new to this sort of work. If Brujon said that it was still a viable job, then Thenardier trusted his judgment. 

It was dark when they finally arrived at the gate on the deserted street. Brujon had been right about the location. No one came through this area of town at night and the lantern’s light didn’t quite reach the edge of the garden. It was the perfect spot for dark work. 

He rustled through his bag, checking their supplies while the others tried to find a way in. Suddenly, one of the men squawked in surprise. Thenardier looked up to see his daughter with one hand pressed up against Babet’s chest.

“This place is biscuit,” Eponine said. “What are you doing here?”

“A job, my dearest child,” Thenardier said, “once you get the hell out of the way.”

The girl’s mouth twisted into a childish frown. “Father, you’ve trusted me before, why not trust me now?” Eponine asked.

“There’s two lone women” Brujun argued, he was the man who had originally discovered the home. “The place will be easy.”

The girl shook her head, trying to dissuade them. “The women have moved away.”

Babet pointed to the windows. “The candles haven’t.”

Eponine clenched her fists when she saw that he was right. Up in the windows there were candles burning, their light inadvertently betraying the inhabitants. Thenardier had no idea what his daughter was up to, but he was tired of her games. “Get out of the way, Eponine,” he demanded.

“No, I won’t let you into this house,” she said.

“What’s wrong with her?” one of the other thugs asked.

She placed herself in front of the garden’s gate, a tiny lamb before a pack of wolves. “If you don’t clear out of here I will scream. I’ll call the police! I’ll rouse the neighborhood!”

“Oh!” Thenardier opened his arms in a gesture of surrender. “Don’t you have no feelings for your dear old Dad? Would you send me back when I just got out?”

The girl was not swayed. “You mean the dear old Dad who let me rot for two months?” Eponine hissed. 

Thenardier had run out of patience. He stalked toward her, fists raised, his posture full of menace. “Get out of the way!”

She sucked in a breath and opened her mouth to scream. At his heart, Thenardier was a coward and any threat of outside involvement made his blood run cold. He jumped back, hands held out. “Don’t, don’t,” he said.

Eponine watched him, eyes like a hawk. In that moment she was a woman, fierce and angry like her mother in her darkest wraths. Thenardier trembled before this vision of his daughter. “Fine, we’ll go,” he said. 

The Patron-Minette packed up their things and made quiet plans for the rest of the night. When all their tools were accounted for, Thenardier turned to Eponine. “The next time I see you, you’re going to regret this,” he said.

“Not more than I regret seeing you now,” Eponine retorted.

Father sneered at daughter and slinked off into the night. Eponine watched the men go, keeping watch over the garden and the two lovers within. She did not know that this would be the last time she ever saw her father.


	12. Part 12: To Arms!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta: firebirdofthenight

Marius stood before the massive house, his tattered hat in his hand. It had been yeas since he had seen his grandfather, years since he had decided he could no longer share a life with the man who raised him. Time had not been kind to M. Gillenormand; it had not tempered him, and it had not changed him except to deteriorate his health. 

Marius had hoped, had prayed that a reunion would soften the man, help him to understand the desperation in Marius’ request. Instead, his grandfather had insulted him. Make Cosette his mistress indeed! Marius’ hand tightened on the brim of his hand, nearly tearing it.

The very idea of making such a wonderful, worthy woman nothing but a mistress! A secret to be gossiped about in polite society, or a standby until a more suitable marriage could be arranged. Marius wanted to scream, he wanted to shout his frustration and his thwarted love. He had never hated his grandfather until that moment. 

It was unfortunate that Marius could not see M. Gillenormand in his chambers, that he could not see the anguish on the old man’s face as Marius had left with the shreds of his dignity. M. Gillenormand was too feeble to rush after his nephew, to apologize, to take back the terrible things that he had said. M. Gillenormand was a harsh man, but he truly loved Marius.

The tragedy of misunderstanding happens every day in every corner of the world. All it takes to avert it is further discussion, a rational talk, but humans are not fully rational creatures. They have other sensibilities that guide them as well and they cannot always be reasoned with.

Marius left the home of his grandfather, his feet carrying him through the streets to the apartment he shared with Courfeyrac. He collapsed upon the bed, exhausted and weak with despair. 

He awoke the next morning to see Courfeyrac and some of the others standing over him. They were dressed as if for some occasion. “Are you coming with us to General Lamarque’s funeral?” Courfeyrac asked.

Nothing the other man said registered with Marius. On another day he may have risen, been inspired as had his brothers in arms, but today he just wanted to stay in bed. They left him there to his sorrow. He did not remember what he did the rest of that day; he lived for the moment of reunion with Cosette again, of seeing her one last time, even if it was to explain his own failure.

When night fell, Marius raced to the garden, desperate to not be late. It was nine o’clock, all was dark and there was no Cosette. He searched through the garden, pressed his face against the windows, and called out as loudly as he dared. Nothing. There was not a sound, not a soul stirred from within the walls of the Rue Plumet. 

Cosette was gone.

Marius sank to his knees, unmindful of the cool damp earth. All of his efforts had been for naught, he didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye. There was no note, no word from his love to soften the blow. Nothing. Marius was alone.

Some would say that his decision to die was a waste, nothing but a youthful folly. But Marius was a serious young man, one who believed fully in the things that he said. When he had declared to Cosette that he would die rather than live without her, he had been in earnest. This honesty was what M. Gillenormand had failed to understand.

The man had lived in an era of aristocracy and the games that they played; sincerity was simply unheard of. It was also a time where fashionable young men married one woman but dallied with others with impunity. M. Gillenormand had been crass but not purposefully demeaning toward Marius’ love. He could just not comprehend that Marius was so passionate for his Cosette, for this little nobody that he would be willing to die.

“M. Marius!” a voice cried out. Marius raised his head, uncertain of the strange noises’ location. “Your friends are at the barricade on Rue de la Chanvrerie!” Marius scrambled to his feet, but by the time he could investigate, the stranger was gone.

The barricade? Then the insurrection had already begun. It was fortunate; now Marius knew what he had to do. Fate had forced Cosette to abandon him so he could serve a higher cause. He would go, and face it willingly. 

\----

The clothes were comfortable and they fit well, but Javert could not help but feel like a fraud. It was not as if he had never donned a disguise before; this time just felt wrong. Before he had always thrown himself into danger, knowing exactly what he was up against. Those operations were against criminals, murderers and thieves; these men were schoolboys and the working class, the sorts of people he was used to protecting. They had no right to spill blood on the streets, to commit treason, but he couldn’t help but wish for different foes. 

When he dressed that morning, Javert had decided to forgo his usual application of perfume. He believed that such a scent would draw attention to himself and, quite frankly, even if his nature was discovered he doubted that he would be harassed. The student group had several submissives among their number so he would not be alone. Besides, the feared and respected Inspector Javert was considered normal. He couldn’t help but smirk as he adjusted his cap. The irony of using the truth to further a disguise was not lost on Javert. 

To aide in his mission, he was issued a gun since his were still in Marius Pontmercy’s possession. Javert had debated loading it, but decided against it. He would not raise a weapon against the National Guard and he would not raise it against foolish boys. If anyone were to judge an execution, it would be the courts. 

It was June 5th and Lamarque’s funeral procession was swollen with people. He could hear individuals speaking far too loudly about this signal or that being the one to wait for, to start the revolution. Javert’s task was simple; he was to infiltrate one of the barricades and gather as much intelligence as he could about numbers, names and arms. Once this was done he would escape and report to the nearest National Guard post.

The Guard would handle putting down the rebellion; the Police were merely offering some assistance in reconnaissance. No sense in wasting resources when it wasn’t necessary. 

In the manner of all riots, the crowd seemed to simultaneously erupt into action. Arms were drawn, shouts rent the air and the multitudes began running or fighting. It was chaotic; talk was too loud and too frantic to discern anything. He would never find his target this way. 

Javert retreated into the back streets, trying to find an opening. Around the Rue des Billettes he saw a group of students marching with weapons in full view. One of them cried, “To the barricade!” Javert made his move and insinuated himself into the group. No one seemed to find his presence remarkable. He was in. 

\----

The retreat from Rue Plumet had been uneventful and quiet. Valjean was surprised at Cosette’s lack of chatter; normally, she would have babbled in excitement over a new venture. If she hadn’t been prone to melancholy in the past few months, Valjean might have found this even more remarkable. But he was too distracted to think too hard on it.

Thenardier had been lurking about and Valjean knew that a peaceful life in Paris was no longer possible. The man had been humiliated and imprisoned because of Valjean and Valjean did not want to think of what Thenardier would do in revenge. There had been other signs to alarm him as well; carved on the wall of the garden had been an address.

Valjean did not know if it was some sort of signal, but he could not take the chance. The final straw had been a note, written in scrawled capital letters, telling him to leave the house.  
So he packed up Cosette, the housekeeper and himself and installed them at the apartment on Rue de l'homme armé. They took out only the necessities from their trunks; Valjean expected to be in England at the end of the week, there was no need to go through all of the trouble of packing again.

He still needed to finalize their papers, but then they could be on their way. Soon they would be on the open ocean -- sailing away from Paris, away from the Thenardiers, away from the civil strife and away from Javert. At that last thought, Valjean found his resolve wavering. 

He had lived for so long without the other man’s presence, but the Gorbeau House had rekindled his need. Javert had let him go then, but would he continue to allow Valjean to elude custody? Was his mercy a one-time event, or did it indicate something deeper? To be with Javert again would be a new ecstasy, but was it worth the risk of Cosette’s safety? 

No. Valjean and Javert were old men; their lives had run their course. Cosette was still too young to ask her to accept that sort of danger. He gazed out the window onto the streets of Paris below. He could hear rumbles in the distance. Had something already begun? 

\---- 

Joly sat at the table in the Corinthe wine shop wiping at his nose. He was congested from a cold and felt rather miserable. At least he had his friends with him to enjoy the wine, cheese and oysters. Grantaire was already drunk, and Laigle pretended to listen to the other’s ramblings. 

The other members of les Amis were with the funeral procession, ready for the upcoming fight. Enjolras had ordered Joly stay away due to his cold; Laigle had stayed by Joly’s side due to friendship; Grantaire was with them due to melancholy. 

“Enjolras distains me!” the man moaned.

Joly knew that wasn’t the case. Enjolras was merely disappointed in Grantaire. Grantaire, at times, displayed great intelligence and shrewdness, but his poor habits often drowned his nobility. Enjolras was too busy with the resurrection of the Republic to entertain his friend’s moods.

“If only he had called for me, I would have come,” Grantaire said. He took another drink. “I won’t go to his funeral.”

Joly was a little disturbed at this statement. He had been contemplating his own mortality lately. Mushichetta, his mistress, had been hinting at a desire for a stronger commitment. She was an aggressive and Joly a submissive; though they had been engaged in a physical relationship they had not bonded. 

Mushichetta knew that as a medical student Joly had easy access to heat suppressants and had been using them. She would never sabotage her love, but she was growing discontent with their stagnant situation. Honestly, Joly would had been excited at the idea but his involvement with les Amis had put a damper on his enthusiasm. 

He did not want Mushichetta to bond herself to a man who would be dead soon. Enjolras and the others had such grand plans, such tremendous fervor that he could not pull himself away, not even for a love as beautiful as Mushichetta. Joly traced his finger around the rim of the wineglass. Now he was falling into melancholy. 

The three friends did not know how many hours passed, the only method for guessing the time was the number of wine bottles they consumed between them. Laigle had taken to sitting on the windowsill, claiming that the rain was soothing upon his back. As such, they heard the commotion from outside long before it reached the wine shop’s doors.

“To arms!” Enjolras cried. Grantaire’s head perked up at the sound of their leader’s voice.

As les Amis raced by the windows, Laigle reached his hand out and grasped Courfeyrac before he could escape. “What’s going on?” he asked, eyes bleary from drink.

“To build a barricade!” Courfeyrac answered. His face was flushed with excitement.

Laigle gave him a sloppy smile. “Why not build it here?”

Where others may have considered it a suggestion borne of drink, Courfeyrac considered it borne of grape-induced genius. “Yes,” he said. “We should build it here.”

The wine shop was in an ideal place to block off several different streets. Once barricaded it would be easy to defend because the troops would only have one avenue of attack, the front. Courfeyrac rallied the growing mob and they threw themselves into the construction of a barricade. 

The three men in the wine shop rose to their unsteady feet and assisted their far more sober companions. Paving stones, furniture, carts and other bric-a-brac were requisitioned for the task. Joly felt himself become invigorated; he wasn’t certain if it was from the rain or the activity. 

He rolled a barrel into the line while an older man lashed it to another barrel with a length of rope. Joly watched this older man for a moment; he was dressed as a laborer, his hair and beard had some gray but he was still physically fit. Joly’s sense of smell was dulled from the congestion, but he could still recognize something of himself in this other man. “Excuse me,” Joly asked, “but I can’t help but ask, are we of the same nature?”

The older man looked up, surprised that someone was talking to him. He scrutinized Joly for a moment, and it seemed that he saw no threat for the man’s face cleared. “Yes,” he said. “We are.”

Joly could not help but grin. “Thank god. There are other submissives among my friends but I was worried that no one else would come,” he said. “It is hard for people to fight their natures.” Joly was not expressing camaraderie out of politeness; he truly felt joy at seeing another with his biology on their side.

Recruitment had been difficult for les Amis among the submissives, for numerous reasons; some had feared retribution from Royalist mates, others had been terrified of reprisal just because of their biology, and others could not overcome their natural timidity. Rhetoric and companionship had broken Joly of his own problems with the latter, but many others were not so lucky. 

Joly grabbed more materials for their section of the barricade, eager to work at this man’s side. “Are you mated?” he asked, dropping some paving stones at the other’s feet.

The older man was guarded in his answer: “Yes, but he’s been away.” 

Joly nodded, it was a little presumptuous to ask but he was just so curious. “I’m not mated yet,” he offered, “but my Mushichetta wants us to bond.” 

“What about you?” the man asked; it seemed that he was finally ready to engage in conversation. “How do you feel about it?”

“I want to,” Joly admitted, “but I can’t. Not until this is over.”

The older man paused in his work, his mouth curved in a sad smile. “Your duty comes before your heart, then?”

“Yes,” Joly said.

“I might know about such a thing,” the man replied. 

There was a companionable silence between the two men as if they had reached some sort of accord. When they resumed speaking the conversation switched to far more mundane matters. It was in this way that they spent their time, as the barricade rose higher and higher. When night finally fell, the mass of wood, stone and dreams was complete. They were ready.


	13. Part 13: The Spy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta: iamthefirebird

All that was left was to wait for an attack. Javert followed some of the others back into the wine shop. There was no food and the leader Enjolras had been issuing out rations of brandy, keeping the wine far out of everyone’s reach. Javert took his ration and sat in the corner. He sipped at the brandy, letting it warm his body. Now was an excellent time to gather his thoughts.

There were less than fifty men at the barricade, and they were guarding two blocked streets. A third narrow alley remained open as an escape route. Javert had not yet gotten a full count of the guns and barrels of powder; he would have to work on that next.

As Javert mused, he never noticed an impish child watching him. This boy, one Gavroche by name, was a product of the Thenardier clan, the middle child and the eldest boy. He had been left to the tender mercies of the streets when his mother had thrown him out of the household after the inn’s failure. She had figured it was better to save the two girls, whom she adored, rather than the three young boys she despised.

Gavroche was not kindly deposed toward his parents, and when he had discovered that they had been arrested following the Gorbeau House affair it had been no skin off his nose. Their subsequent escape from prison also had little effect on him. 

He took shelter in a grand wooden elephant built by the fallen Emperor. As this once great man had given him lodgings, Gavroche considered himself a Bonapartist Republican. Since he was only eleven years old, none of the members of les Amis took him too seriously, but they seemed to enjoy his company. That was enough for a neglected child like Gavroche.

When he had reached the barricade, he had requested a gun of his own, but was denied. Enjolras was a spoilsport; he didn’t think that Gavroche was big enough to handle himself. Well, perhaps routing out a traitor would do the trick. 

Inspector Javert wasn’t too bad a sort, as far as cops went, but he had pulled Gavroche’s ear the other day when he had been playing on the Port Royal. And really, that sort of man didn’t belong at a barricade. Once he was certain that the strange man was who he thought he was, Gavroche raced to Enjolras with the news.

Javert had been plotting out his escape from the barricade when someone asked, “Who are you?” 

He looked up to see Enjolras glaring at him. The man’s voice had been too hostile to be just a friendly question. It seemed that Javert had been made. 

Javert rose to his feet, but was shoved back down into his chair. Four of the students were holding onto him; when he turned his head to the right he could make out the form of Joly watching them from the side. Well, that was unfortunate; he had rather liked the young man. Javert was pinned forward against the table and searched. 

They discovered his identification, a circular card wedged between two pieces of glass, his purse and not much else. Javert had packed that particular card because its shape was discernable when held up from a distance. It was supposed to keep the National Guard from shooting him; how ironic that it would lead to him getting killed by the rebels.

“You are a police spy?” Enjolras asked.

Javert’s lip curled; he hated that word. “I am an agent of the authorities,” he corrected. 

Enjolras did not seem to care about the difference. Through the entire ordeal, Javert remained still and did not struggle. When the students were satisfied, they gave him back his wallet. The boys were idealists, not thieves.

“You have been found a traitor to the People,” Enjolras said. 

“By what court?” Javert asked. He looked around at the motley collection of students and laborers. “All I see are children with guns.”

The blond Adonis frowned, his lips tight at the insult. “We will shoot you ten minutes before they take the barricade.”

Javert shrugged. “Why not shoot me now?”

“We’re trying to save powder.”

Javert didn’t believe that for a second. “Why not use a knife?”

He could see Joly pale from the corner of his eye. Yes, these students talked about blood for liberty, but they did not have the guts to kill a man. They had no idea what a blessing it was for them to harbor that gentleness. Javert had seen men consumed by bloodlust in Toulon; he had known terrible monsters lurking beneath a human skin. 

Enjolras straightened his spine and stared right into Javert’s eyes. “We are a civilized people.”

It took Javert everything he had not to laugh. A moment later, he was in no mood for levity.

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras called out and held out his hand. Courfeyrac approached his leader with two lengths of rope; he handed one to Enjolras and they advanced on the spy. 

Javert had only been overcome by instinct a few times in his life: one of them had been during his heat in M. sur M., this was another. He did what any restrained submissive would do when faced with two aggressives: he panicked. 

Javert lashed out at the men holding him, pulling himself free from their arms. The room erupted into frenzied activity. Enjolras dropped the rope and reached out to grasp Javert’s arm. The fist that connected with his face let him know Javert was not coming quietly. 

The older man lashed out at the students, startling them with his ferocity. Javert was not fighting like a trained policeman, but a cornered dog. He found a stove length of wood and swung it at his attackers.

With a well-timed lunge, Courfeyrac hurled himself at Javert and knocked him to the floor. The wood fell from the policeman’s hand. Enjolras picked up the improvised weapon and struck Javert upon the temple. Pain exploded in Javert’s head and the world went black.

\---- 

The students stood around the still form of the police inspector, stunned at the events that had just transpired. Joly knelt next to the fallen man and examined his wounds.

“What just happened?” Courfeyrac asked. “He had been so cavalier and then—“

“He’s a submissive,” Joly said, his voice tight with worry. “Two aggressives came after him when he was restrained.” He pulled open one of Javert’s eyelids and noted how the pupil contracted in the light. The man was out but not too damaged. The wound on his head was bleeding in that terrible manner of all blows to the skull. “How did you think he’d react?”

Enjolras and Courfeyrac were disturbed by the comment. “We would never have—“

“He didn’t know that,” Joly said. He wasn’t excusing the behavior, just trying to explain it. “When all your life, you’ve had aggressives approach you for only one thing—“

“It’s wrong,” Enjolras said, his fist clenched tight. “This is the exact sort of thing we’re fighting against.” He raised his head, addressing the crowd. “This man reacted out of fear; fear of our biology and fear of his. We are a people born in an era of enlightenment but these fears still haunt us. What right does society have to enforce this tyranny? Do we want to live in a world where submissives must cringe and fight aggressives out of the terror of what we might do, even when we mean no harm?”

“Well,” Grantaire interrupted, “you did say you were going to kill him.”

The glare that Enjolras shot his comrade let everyone know just how much he appreciated his friend’s sober reflections.

\----

Gavroche hummed a merry little tune to himself, clutching his newly acquired gun. Night had fallen, and after Grantaire’s outburst Enjolras had been in no mood to refuse Gavroche’s requests; he had given the boy the spy’s gun. The gamin admired his weapon in the torchlight. It was a fine gun; it had a trigger and everything!

The boy’s joy was short-lived. The National Guard chose to attack and there was chaos everywhere. Shots rent the air, the screams of wounded men assaulted Gavroche’s ears and the smell, oh the smell!

He spotted a large Guardsman about to leap over the barricade, and raised his gun. He would show Enjolras just how useful he could be. The man was in his sights; Gavroche pulled the trigger. Nothing. Nothing happened. Did the gun misfire? Was it even loaded?

Before Gavroche could blink, the man was upon him, driving him back with his bayonette. He was going to die; Gavroche would never be a man, would never be able to prove he was more than just a pickpocket, that he was more than just a dirty face and a mouth full of slang.

A bullet struck the Guard in the head, killing him instantly. Gavroche turned to see who his savoir was. It was Marius, holding twin pistols. He had fired one to save Gavroche and the boy could see Courfeyrac pushing a corpse off himself. “Marius!” the boy cried out.

Marius ignored the child and threw the guns away. The pistols from Inspector Javert had only the two shots. They had done their duty. The barricade would be overrun in just moments. They had no time.

Marius grabbed a torch and a barrel of powder; he raced for the edge of the barricade as fast as he could. Focused as he was, he never noticed the gun taking aim at his heart, he never noticed the small hand that closed over the barrel, and he never noticed the frail body that took the bullet meant for him.

Marius hauled the barrel of powder over the top of the barricade and shouted, “Stop! Or I’ll blow the barricade!” Everyone stopped and stared at the young man, torch and powder in hand, a crazed look in his eyes.

“You do that, and you’ll go up with it!” one of the National Guardsmen shouted.

“And me with it,” Marius intoned. He was naturally a serious and grave young man; no one mistook his threat for mere bravado. 

The National Guard retreated, leaving the students on the barricade to collect their wits and count their dead. Bahoral had been one of the first to fall, but one of the others was missing.

A few shouts from beyond the barricade alerted Enjolras to the location of their missing comrade. The sound of the shot and the deafening silence that followed told him of the man’s fate. 

It was only the first night and despair had begun to fall.

\----

Marius was numb; he rounded up the weapons of the fallen, trying desperately not to think. He was not truly meant for battle-- although he had more than proved his mettle.

He did not want to be here. Did he really want to die? Marius thought of Cosette and felt his heart clench. On the other hand, could he live without her? Could there still be light in his life without the warmth of her smile, the love in her eyes? No, he had made a promise; he would stay and fulfill the fate that Providence had given him.

“Monsieur Marius?” 

The words were weak and soft, but they scattered Marius’ thoughts all the same. He set down his burden and moved toward the call. It was a boy, dressed in rags with a hole in his hand and blood on his chest. When Marius reached the boy’s side, he was shocked. It wasn’t a boy at all, but Eponine.

“Eponine? What are you doing here?” he asked.

She reached out her hand, the one with the gaping hole. “I came here for you,” she said.

Marius cradled Eponine’s thin frame; he could not bear to see her prone on the pavement. “What do you mean?” Marius asked.

The girl looked away. “I told you about your friends being here and I followed you.”

Marius looked at her, confused. “Why?”

Because Eponine’s heart had been filled with the same black emotions that had claimed Cloutier. She had seen the two young lovers in the garden at Rue Plumet, and her soul darkened with anger. She knew that Marius would have no place for her in his affections and had resolved to do something about it. 

When Cosette, the Lark that had lived with her all those years ago, had given her a letter meant for Marius, Eponine had kept it. She then waited for Marius’ return and informed him where the barricade was. Her intention was for him to die, and she would follow him into that black night.

But there were crucial differences between Eponine and the policeman Cloutier. Eponine was willing to die herself for love and, most importantly, she found that she could not go through with her plan. She could not see this young man die for her own selfishness, and so took the bullet in the palm of her hand. The impact had driven the bullet through the fragile flesh and deep into her chest. Eponine was dying, as she had wanted, but - for now at least - Marius would live.

She reached into her shirt and pulled out Cosette’s letter. “I kept this from you,” she said. “It is from the lady.”

Marius snatched it from her, but even in his eagerness he could not abandon Eponine. “Let me take you to the others. They can patch you up,” he offered.

Eponine shook her head. She was weak; her head was filled with fog. She knew she was not long for this world. “No,” Eponine said, “I am dying. Just stay with me, please.” 

Rain spattered onto Eponine’s upturned face. They remained that way in silence, hearing the noise of the barricade going on around them. One voice rang out clear and distinct. 

Eponine smiled. “Oh, that is my brother.”

Marius frowned in resolve. The gamin Garvoche was Eponine’s brother?

“I haven’t seen him in so long,” Eponine said, her eyes were closing. She gave Marius a beatific smile. “Monsieur Marius, I think I may have loved you a little.”

She was gone. Marius pressed a kiss to her forehead, a peaceful parting for the dead. He laid her back down on the ground, much more gently than she had ever been treated in life. Marius took himself to a covered alcove and devoured the letter from Cosette. Although he had been impatient to read it before, he did not want to do so in Eponine’s presence. He was too respectful a young man for that.

The letter was short and to the point, but most importantly it had an address: Rue de l'homme armé, No. 7. Cosette had not forsaken him. Oh, if only he had gotten this letter sooner! He would not leave his friends, but he could not leave Cosette without word of his fate.

Marius found paper and pen, and scratched out a quick note. He would send this to Cosette using Gavroche. He would save the Thenardier boy and bid his final farewell at the same time. It was a brilliant plan. He called out to Gavroche. “Hey boy, I have an errand for you!”

Gavroche, eager to assist the man who had saved his life, came running. “What is it?”

“Take this letter to Rue de l'homme armé, No. 7. Give it to a young lady named Cosette, no one else. Deliver it in the morning,” Marius said, handing over the note.

Gavroche stared at the paper and frowned. “If I wait ‘til morning, I’ll miss the attack.” 

That was the idea. “She won’t be awake now,” Marius said, coming up with the best excuse he could. “Now go!”

“All right!” the boy said, waving Marius off. “I’ll deliver your love note.” With a cheeky grin, Gavroche took off.

Marius sat back on his heels and watched the boy leave. He would give a life for a life; that was all he could hope to do.


	14. Part 14: The Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta: firebirdofthenight

Cosette had been withdrawn all day, and Valjean was starting to worry. Previously, he had been too wrapped up in his plans for the voyage, and his own ruminations on Javert, to notice. But she had only picked at dinner then made an excuse to retreat to her bedroom. It was far too early to retire; something was wrong.

Valjean sat down in the one of the living room chairs to think. Although he had an excellent relationship with his daughter, he was uncertain how to broach the subject of her melancholy. He glanced up into the mirror and noticed something strange. He could see writing clearly displayed in the glass: Cosette’s writing. He had given Cosette a blotter for her birthday and it was resting on the table below the mirror. 

The blotter had recorded what she had written in a backwards image, and now it was corrected in the reflection. Valjean stood and read the words. It was a letter to a boy.

Valjean blinked in shock. When had she had time to see a boy? Why had she not said anything about it? Why keep it a secret? Most importantly, why give this mysterious boy this address?

In another lifetime, Valjean might have kept the knowledge of the letter a secret from Cosette, but here and now he could not. Since the convent, they had spoken to each other freely; although Valjean had kept some secrets from her, he had been honest about many things. He would ask for the same honesty from his daughter.

Valjean picked up the blotter and carried it to her room. The door was closed; he knocked and awaited admittance. “Cosette?” he called out.

“Yes, Papa?”

“May I come in?”

Cosette opened the door a moment later, dressing gown tied neatly about her. Her eyes were red and wet with tears. She had been crying. She tried to wipe the evidence away, but it was too late. 

Valjean softened, but he still sought the truth. “Cosette,” he asked, holding out the blotter. “What is this?”

Before she had been reluctant to tell her Papa; the idea of losing his love and respect had filled her with terror. Now the reality of losing Marius stung her heart and dredged up the deepest sorrow she had ever felt. Somehow, being confronted by the physical evidence of her passions emboldened the girl. “It is the reason we cannot go to England,” she said.

That was not the response Valjean was expecting. “What?”

“I am in love.” Four small words; amazing how just a simple phrase could change everything. “His name is Marius Pontmercy; we’ve been seeing each other in the garden after dark.”

Valjean felt like a fool. “Who is this man?” Valjean asked. “And how long has this been going on?”

“He’s the boy from the Luxembourg,” Cosette answered. “He found me again about two months ago.”

Valjean clutched the blotter between his hands. He was losing his little girl. “But you’re so young. How could you—“ 

“I’m drawn to him, Papa.” Cosette reached out and grasped his hands. “I’ve been drawn to him since the Luxembourg Gardens. You know what that’s like; the need, the agony of the heart.”

Yes, he knew all too well. He knew how that pull did not care for propriety, for social status. He knew that the pull did not distinguish between free men and prisoners. That a convict could be drawn to a young guard who had nothing but contempt and fear for him. 

“I do know Cosette,” Valjean spoke softly. He did not want to break her heart; he did not want to be the one to cause her such agony, but there was still the issue of Thenardier. “Unfortunately, we still have to leave. We are in danger here.” 

“I know,” Cosette said. 

Valjean was startled at this. How did she know about that ruffian?

What Cosette said next rocked Valjean to the core. “There is civil unrest in Paris; Inspector Javert told me about it.”

Valjean pulled his hands away from his daughter’s and dropped the blotter. He trembled, but he was not certain why. “You’ve seen Javert?”

“Yes,” Cosette said. She was nervous about her Papa’s appearance; he suddenly looked so old. “Yes, I sought him out; I gave him the address at the Rue Plumet. I had hoped to rekindle something between you two.” 

Valjean’s limbs felt far too heavy. He collapsed back into Cosette’s knitting chair, cradling his brow in shock. “Cosette, what have you done?”

“I don’t know,” Cosette admitted. “It’s been two weeks and he never arrived. The trouble in Paris must be serious.”

At these words Valjean felt an absurd combination of relief and irritation: relief that Javert had not rushed to his home to arrest him, and irritation that Javert had not come to his home at all. He had spent years agonizing, if when he next saw Javert if the younger man would kiss him or cuff him, and now he discovered that Javert would simply do nothing. Valjean’s mouth twisted into a petulant frown.

He looked up and saw Cosette gazing at him with amusement. “What is it?”

Cosette tilted her head, a tiny smile on her face. “We may be of the same mind,” she said.

Valjean snorted. Ridiculous, an old man and a young girl both disappointed by the absence of their lovers. Foolishness. It was not as if Valjean had sought out Javert after his arm had healed, and perhaps Javert could help him with Thenardier; the policeman had been eager to arrest the scoundrel before.

Valjean sighed. “Where is this young man of yours?”

Cosette looked away. “I don’t know. I sent him a note and I expected him sometime yesterday.” She wrung her hands together in frustration. “I gave the letter to a young woman; maybe she didn’t get it to the post in time.”

There was a loud crash from outside the window and the night seemed to darken. Cosette and Valjean looked at each other in alarm. Valjean rose to see what was the matter.

He opened the window and peered outside; someone had just smashed all of the lamps.

A voice cried out from the dark. “Hey, your lanterns were still on. That’s disobeying regulations - but I took care of it for you!”

Valjean was puzzled at this strange noise. He could just make out the small figure of a boy in the dark. “Who are you?”

“What’s it to you?” the boy cried back.

“There’s fighting in the streets, what are you doing out? You should be home with your parents,” Valjean shouted.

“They’re miserable bastards,” the boy said. “Don’t matter anyway. Is this No. 7?”

“Yes,” Valjean said.

The boy held up what appeared to be a letter. “Then I’ve got this note here for a Mademoiselle Cosette.”

Valjean waved his hand at the child. “Bring it here, boy!”

“You ain’t a lady!”

Valjean rolled his eyes and gestured for Cosette to come to the window. He stepped out of the way, and let her poke her head outside. “I am Mlle. Cosette,” she said.

The boy grinned, showing all his teeth. “Now that’s more like it. But you’d better come down ‘ere. I don’t trust your bourgeois houses.”

Cosette raced down the stairs to the door, Valjean following close behind her. Within moments, she had her much sought after letter and the boy, Gavroche, had a hundred-sou piece in his hand. As Cosette read through her letter, Valjean asked, “Where should we send a reply?”

The boy scoffed. “The People are at the barricade on Rue de la Chanvrerie. I was just told to deliver this in the morning, don’t think Marius was expecting a reply.”

Then, before Valjean could grab him, the child took off into the night. “You stay away from the barricade!” Valjean cried out, but he doubted that the nameless boy heeded his words. He could only hope that the promise of a meal with the hundred-sou piece would keep the child out of harm’s way. 

Valjean turned to his daughter; her face was pale. “Cosette, it’s too dark to see.”

Cosette snapped, her voice choked with tears. “I can read it well enough.” She thrust the paper at her father. “He means to die, Papa!” She leant her head against his chest and wept.

Valjean cradled his daughter, wishing that his arms could keep her from harm forever. “It’s all right, there’s still time,” he murmured. “The boy said that he was to deliver the letter in the morning, right?”

Cosette leaned back and nodded her head. “Yes.”

“But it won’t be morning for hours,” Valjean reasoned.

Cosette’s fingers clenched her father’s shirt. “He could still be alive. But what can we do?”

Valjean knew. He stared down at his daughter, his face grim and determined. “I will go to the barricade and I will bring him back.” 

Cosette looked at him with horror. “Papa, you can’t!”

“Your Papa has a few tricks up his sleeve,” Valjean replied. He cupped his daughter’s cheek. “You were brave when you tried to secure my happiness, let me be brave to secure yours.”

She shook her head in protest. “It’s not the same thing!” 

“Cosette,” Valjean said, “I know you won’t need me in your life much longer; please, let me do this for you.”

“Oh, Papa.” Cosette crushed her father in a tight embrace. She kissed his cheek. “I will always need you, Marius or no Marius.”

Valjean did not know how badly he had needed to hear those words until they had been spoken. His heart felt lighter, and although he knew the task ahead was dangerous, it felt like nothing could stop him. “I need to fetch a few things before I go.”

With Cosette’s help, Valjean gathered a few supplies, including his uniform from the National Guard, and he stole off into the night. When her father was gone, Cosette went to the housekeeper’s room and knocked on the door.

Cosette said: “We need to prepare the house, Toussaint.” At the older woman’s startled look, Cosette smiled. “We will be receiving a guest in the morning.”

\----

Javert’s skull throbbed with pain and his throat was dry. He lifted his head trying to ease some of the pressure against it. A noose had been fashioned around his neck while he was unconscious, and his hands and feet bound securely. A glass with water appeared in his vision.

“Good, you’re awake,” a familiar voice said. Javert blinked and recognized the student Joly. The young man placed the glass against Javert’s lips, allowing him to drink.

The water was cool, and he craved it; it took Javert a tremendous amount of willpower not to choke himself. He kept his sips slow and controlled. Joly was gentle, watching Javert to make sure he could handle it. He took the glass away only when it was empty. Holding up several fingers in range of Javert’s vision, he asked: “How many?” 

“Three,” Javert replied.

“Good,” Joly said. “And now.” He held up a solitary finger.

“One.”

Joly then took the single finger and moved it around in a box pattern. “Follow it,” he ordered.

Javert did, his eyes tracked the movements without difficulty. Joly nodded to himself; he was satisfied with his patient. Now that the examination was over, Javert took the time to reorient himself to his surroundings. Night had fallen and he could hear distressed discussion from outside the wine shop.

“How long was I out?” Javert asked.

“Several hours,” Joly said. The young man sat down, stretching his legs out and propping his back against the wall. He wasn’t leaving anytime soon, then. 

“I see the barricade hasn’t fallen,” Javert said, wondering how much information he could gather.

“The Guard attacked but we repelled them,” Joly said. He let out a mirthless laugh. “Marius actually threatened to blow up the barricade.”

Javert frowned. “That’s madness.”

Joly turned his head, revealing a tired smile. “He got them to retreat.”

It was absurd that they were talking like this, so casually - as if one of them wasn’t bound and the other a traitor to his country. Javert shifted, trying to make himself slightly more comfortable. 

“Why are you here?” Javert asked. 

“I’m supposed to watch you,” Joly said. “I just thought I’d check up on you, too.”

He had mentioned earlier that he was a medical student; it only made sense he would want the practice. It was too bad that he would never get the chance to ply his trade. The noise outside increased. “What are they talking about out there?” Javert asked. 

Joly pursed his lips together. “Enjolras says we only need thirty men on the barricade. He’s trying to convince people to leave.”

“Will they?” Javert asked, curious.

Joly shrugged, “I don’t know. We’re all committed to the cause, ready to die if necessary.”

Javert was starting to wonder about his own impending execution. He was not eager to die, but he hoped to face it with the same integrity as he had everything else.

“Enjolras shot a man earlier,” Joly said. He raised his knees, wrapping his arms around them. “The man had killed a civilian who wouldn’t let us into his home.”

Javert felt his hackles rise; this was the sort of violence he deplored. “Did you see it?” Javert asked.

“No, I just heard the shot. The sound was awful enough. I’ve already lost two friends and—“ Joly turned away. He did not cry, but he wiped at his dripping nose. “I don’t think I can watch when they shoot you,” he whispered.

It was an odd sentiment, but not one unappreciated. Javert managed a wry smile. “I won’t think less of you if you don’t watch.”

Joly looked at him with a gratitude Javert didn’t feel that he deserved. Revolution made for odd bedfellows it seemed.


	15. Part 15: The Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta: firebirdofthenight

The door from the wine cellar opened with a dramatic bang, startling Joly and Javert. Grantaire appeared at the top of the stairs, cradling a bottle of wine. Joly raised an eyebrow in resignation. “I thought that Enjolras hid all of the wine.”

Grantaire grinned, his teeth bared past a curled lip. “He may try, but none can hide what does not wish to remain hidden.” He raised his bottle in triumph. “Besides, if I am to die, I wish to die numb. I’d rather not feel the bayonette pierce my side.” 

Javert and Joly grimaced in distaste at this pronouncement. Grantaire ignored their censure and flopped to the ground, his arm pressed against Javert. He leaned over the bound man and looked at Joly. “If you don’t mind, I would like to interrogate this prisoner alone.”

Joly shook his head at the smell of Grantaire’s breath and rose to his feet. He clapped a friendly hand on Javert’s shoulder. “Holler if he does anything foolish.”

“Then my throat would be hoarse within the minute,” Javert replied.

Once Joly took his leave, Grantaire fixed his gaze on Javert. “Now, I have some very serious questions to ask you and you will answer me honestly, or I will have to deal with you very harshly,” Grantaire said. “You are our prisoner after all.”

As if Javert could forget the noose around his neck or the stiffness of his arms and legs. Fine, he would play this drunkard’s game. “What do you wish to know?”

Grantaire shifted, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Joly told me you were mated, is this true?”

How many people had the young man told? “Yes,” Javert answered; he was supposed to be honest after all.

“Then tell me,” Grantaire asked, excited by this confession, “how a fierce man such as yourself came to be tamed -- and if I might use the same methods to tame a mighty tiger myself.”

Javert bristled at the implication in the boy’s words. His relationship with Madeleine had not been so crude. The mayor had wanted to protect Javert, but had never wanted to control him. “I thought you were a revolutionary,” he scoffed. “Subscribing to such bourgeois notions should be beneath you.” Javert scowled at the younger man. “Besides, I am a submissive, not a child -- and my mate is not some commanding beast.” 

A strange look crossed Grantaire’s face as the words sank in. He did not appear to be offended, but deep in thought. After a moment, he licked his lips and nodded his head, as if coming to some silent accord. “You have given me food for thought, Monsieur,” Grantaire said. 

“Now I am truly sorry that we have to shoot you.” He staggered to his feet and snapped a sloppy salute to the bound man. “Vive la France!” Grantaire made his way to some dark corner out of Javert’s line of vision.

This day was becoming more and more baffling to Javert. First the medical student, now the drunk; who was next, the child? 

“Hey Inspector, I’ve got questions for you!”

Javert turned his head. Speak of the devil; it was Gavroche. He had finished his excursion outside the barricade and had returned to take care of business. The boy schooled his features into a serious expression, one that looked absurd on such a young and dirty face. 

Javert had no idea what the child could possibly want from him. Hadn’t the boy already condemned him to death? What knowledge could the policeman have that would be useful to the gamin?

“How do you pass?” Gavroche asked. 

Of all the things the boy could ask, that was the thing Javert had least expected.

“I know that you couldn’t be a cop if they knew,” Gavroche insisted, “so you have to be able to fake it. How do you do it?”

Javert was uncertain how to respond. “You don’t need to worry about that,” Javert said. “You haven’t differentiated yet.” Not to mention they’d all be dead by morning.

Gavroche wrinkled his nose. “Not yet, but someday. My mum’s submissive, my dad’s submissive, my sisters are submissive and I bet that me and the youngsters will be too.” He said this with the absolute fatalism of a child old before his time. “Don’t matter now, but I know what’ll happen to me if someone like the dandy finds out.”

Javert knew exactly which dandy Gavroche was referring to. Yes, the boy had every right to be afraid of the criminal Montparnasse. “I take it your parents haven’t taught you anything.”

Gavroche laughed, it was a bitter, harsh sound. “They don’t know the first thing about passing.” 

The thought of teaching any useful skill to this child was ridiculous; he would not have access to the same resources Javert did, and the impending attack by the National Guard was looming over all their heads. It was a waste of time and of energy -- but Javert was not going anywhere. What was he to do, just sit in stony silence until Enjolras finally came back and put a bullet through his skull? Would he keep quiet just out of spite and remain trapped in his own meditations on his execution? No, Javert was not so petty.

Decision reached, Javert tried to settle himself into a more comfortable position. He spoke and the child listened.

\----

To Marius, seeing Monsieur Fauchelevent show up at the barricade was one of the most startling moments of his life. Enjolras and Courfeyrac had been trying to convince some of the volunteers to leave and rejoin their families when it was discovered that they were short one National Guard uniform; they had hoped to sneak these brave men past the military by disguising them with discarded uniforms. 

A fight broke out among the five chosen, ironically not because they desired to leave, but because they all wished the honor of martyrdom upon themselves. When the argument had reached a fever pitch, one last uniform appeared on the pile. 

M. Fauchelevent had thrown the uniform down himself, having no need for it since he had reached his destination. With this gift, M. Fauchelevent assured himself a temporary place in the revolution. Then, with a demonstration of marksmanship that saved Enjolras’s life, he was exulted to the status of hero. 

After the initial excitement died down, the men of the barricade fell back into their default state: patient waiting. Now that the first attack was over, repairs were needed and Enjolras wanted to reinforce some of the weaker areas of the redoubt. Marius fell into a mindless rhythm of patching up one of the stone staircases -- so he was caught unawares when M. Fauchelevent approached him. 

“You are Marius?” M. Fauchelevent asked.

Marius jumped, frightened by the sound. He gripped his chest, feeling his heart pound. “Yes,” he answered with a squeak.

M. Fauchelevent looked Marius up and down, and the younger man felt like he was found wanting. “So,” M. Fauchelevent said, “you would abandon my daughter for this cause?”

Marius was shocked at the accusation. “I wanted no such thing!” he said far too loudly. He glanced around, nervous that he was overheard -- but no one was paying them any mind. He recovered himself and answered in a low voice, “I received her letter after I was already here. I thought she had left no word for me.”

M. Fauchelevent frowned. “What happened?”

“The girl that she gave the letter to withheld it from me,” Marius explained. “She—“ his face flushed with embarrassment, “she had feelings for me.” He looked up and felt that M. Fauchelevent’s stare was accusing. “I didn’t know and it didn’t matter!” he insisted. It was true, no matter how Eponine had felt about him it could not move Marius’s heart. “Eponine may have loved me but I love Cosette. I have loved her from afar and I have loved her when I could hold her hand. I have loved her when she was just a dream and, now that she is a reality, I would die without her.”

Marius’s hands clenched into fists. “That is why I am here. I came here willingly to die, to give my life for my country since I could not give it to her. Cosette is my light; she is the very air in my lungs; without her all is darkness and crushing despair. Without her I cannot be.” 

M. Fauchelevent’s face softened, he was no longer so foreboding, so terrifying to the young man. It offered Marius a glimpse of the loving man that Cosette called her father. “Now that you know that she loves you, will you come back with me?” he asked. 

The pause that followed was pregnant with fear and guilt. Yes, if the news had come before Marius would have gladly left his friends to their fate to be with his love -- but now he had a higher call to answer to. To abandon his friends now would be to abandon his ideals. He could never face Cosette, could never live a happy life with her if he were a coward. 

“I’m sorry, M. Fauchelevent,” Marius said, his heart full of regret, “but I can’t.”

M. Fauchelevent’s face clouded with anger. “Why not?”

“I can’t leave my friends,” Marius explained. “Not now, not when we’ve come so far.” A wave of exhaustion hit Marius all at once; he felt feverish as the adrenaline left him. He could no longer stand on his own two feet. He sat down, his head leaning against the cool wall. “If you had only come sooner, my answer would be different.”

M. Fauchelevent knelt down beside Marius, his eyes arresting the younger man’s attention. “I will not let you abandon Cosette,” he said.

Marius swallowed, fighting his natural urge to look down and submit to a strong aggressive’s will. “And I won’t let you take me from my friends,” he insisted. It was difficult and the words were soft, but he still forced them out. “So it seems that we are at an impasse.”

M. Fauchelevent just stared at Marius, letting him squirm under his displeasure. “We will see.” He left without another word. 

Marius could only find that he could breath again when M. Fauchelevent was out of his sight. 

\----

The National Guard attacked the barricade, this time with cannons. Fortunately for the men at the barricade, the military’s aim was poor. There was much sound and fury, but not much damage to the redoubt. Still, despite the revolutionaries’ good fortune a simple fact remained: they were only a few men compared to the army’s multitude, and they were running out of ammunition.

They still had powder, but they were rapidly running out of cartridges. Enjolras conferred with Courfeyrac and concluded: “If this keeps up we’ll be out in a quarter of an hour.” 

The two men were unaware that they had been overheard. Gavroche had retreated from Javert’s side to the walls of the barricade once he had gotten the information he had wanted. The Inspector had given him loads of advice; the boy wasn’t sure if he understood it all but knew that someday he would. Perhaps once this little spat with the National Guard was over, he’d ask for some clarification. 

But all thoughts of Javert and of how to pass as normal were suppressed with the news that the revolution was in trouble. Gavroche peered over the edge of the barricade wall, surveying the troubled landscape. The ground was littered with the bodies of fallen National Guardsmen -- and from what Gavroche could see many of them had nearly full cartridge boxes.

If someone could get to them, the revolutionaries would have all that they needed. It was a good thing that they had someone as brave as Gavroche then, wasn’t it? He grabbed a basket from the wine shop and made his way to his destiny.

Gavroche vaulted over the barricade wall and crawled forward on his belly to the first body. He had lived on the streets long enough to know that just because he was small, it didn’t mean he was invisible. There was still some smoke in the air, and it would hide his approach, but he couldn’t count on the cover lasting forever. 

He moved slow and steady, filling his basket with presents for the revolution. Gavroche silently commended these fallen men for their contributions to the cause. It was when he came across the body of a sergeant that he ran into trouble. The smoke that had obscured him from sight had faded and now the army’s snipers could see the tiny urchin robbing their dead.

The National Guard did not take kindly to the idea.

Gavroche flinched as a bullet struck the body he was reliving of precious powder. 

“Gavroche!” Courfeyrac called out, his voice quivering with panic.

“It’s alright!” the boy shouted back, “They are just killing these dead men again!”

Those who study tragedies know of a concept developed by the ancient Greeks called hubris. Hubris was an excess of pride that led to the downfall of many a man and woman in the old tales. Though born millennia after the fall of Athens, Gavroche was not immune to the same boastful arrogance. 

Emboldened by the near miss, Gavroche began to sing. It was a simple verse, mostly nonsense with many repeated phrases, but it was infuriating all the same. These soldiers had seen their fellow men die, robbed of their life by shot and cannon. To see this child, this mouse, come crawling from the barricade to pilfer supplies from their dead held a morbid fascination.

Some saw a strange spectacle; others saw a desecration. Each time Gavroche plucked a cartridge box from a corpse and placed it into his basket, a shot was fired. He dodged the bullets each time, his verse growing still bolder with every second he clung to life.

Enjolras had to hold back Combeferre from rushing over the barricade; he wanted to save this child from the inevitable. Combeferre pleaded with Enjolras: “He’s not going to make it. He can’t hold them off forever!” 

Enjolras shook his head. “There’s nothing we can do. He’s too far out!” 

He was right -- with every body Gavroche was venturing further and further from the barricade. The boy should have stopped, he should have taken his burden back to his comrades, but he always thought, “Just one more. One more and I’ll go back.”

Gavroche raised his voice; his song rang out across the battlefield. “With my nose in the gutter, ‘Tis the fault—“

The bullet tore through his body, spilling his blood upon the pavement. Eponine had lingered, her breath rattling in her chest long after she had been shot. She had been given time to reflect on her actions, on her life and history. Poor Gavroche was dead before he hit the ground.

A cry of grief rent the air from the barricade. From the National Guard there was a deafening silence. There were no boasts, no cheers. They had been sent to put down a rebellion, not to kill children. There was no evil in their intentions, as there was no evil in the actions of the students. Each side felt that they were justified in their violence, in their shedding of blood. If confronted with this truth, both groups would have denied it, even as the evidence of it stared them in the face. This is the misery of war.

Marius and Combeferre moved to fetch the child. A marksman raised his gun and fired. Marius never noticed that the bullet that grazed his temple. When a Guard went to shoulder his gun as well the commander lifted his hand. There was no need to fire another shot; he would allow these men to collect the boy’s body.

Besides, the message had already been sent: no one was leaving the barricade alive.


	16. The Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta: firebirdofthenight

When Javert saw the students carrying the body of the boy, he knew that he was next; the glare he received from their leader confirmed it. At last, the wait was over. The question now was how he was to die: by the gun, with a flick of the knife or would they simply beat him to death?

At any rate, it was over. There would be no slow lingering death from illness, no wretched starvation in the poverty of retirement; he would die as he always wished, in the service of duty.

Gavroche’s body was laid to rest on the table, in full view of everyone in the café. Javert felt a twinge of some unidentifiable emotion. He wasn’t certain if it was pity, sorrow or some combination of the two. The child was a gamin, destined for little but petty thievery. Javert was hardly attached, but he could not help but think of the waste. 

Enjolras held up a gun. “When the last man leaves this room, he’ll smash the spy’s skull in,” he ordered.

Ah, Javert was to be beaten then. Perhaps less dignified than the gun, but still better than other methods he could think of. 

“We’ll take the spy to the barricade on Mondetour lane and do it there.” Enjolras shot Javert a look of disgust. “I don’t want his corpse mingling with our dead.”

Joly wrung his hands together. He said, in a wavering voice, “We don’t have to do this—“ 

The terrible sneer on Enjolras’s face silenced him. Joly said no more, and turned his face away. Javert held no contempt for the boy’s interference. He knew that any attempts at a reprieve for the people’s traitor would be denied. At least the boy could die with a clear conscience. 

“Excuse me.” The voice was familiar; one who had whispered obscenities in the gutter language of Toulon and one who had murmured declarations of devotion with equal fervor into his ear. Javert risked raising his head; it was Valjean.

The man stood there, his face trying to betray no emotions, although Javert could see the man’s hand clenched into a fist. Javert closed his eyes, praying that Valjean would not do anything foolish. An aggressive who felt that his mate was threatened was capable of terrible things. Javert had already resigned himself to death, but Valjean-- 

“May I ask a favor?” Valjean asked.

Enjolras nodded. “Of course,” he said, “anything within our power.”

Valjean’s voice was low, but it rang through the silence. “Give me the spy.” 

Javert looked up in surprise. What was Valjean planning?

Enjolras seemed puzzled, but did not deny the request. He handed Valjean the gun. “This man belongs to you.”

A cold shiver went down Javert’s back at the words. The boy had no idea how right those words were. Ever since that night in his dingy apartment in Montreuil-sur-Mer it had been true. Valjean was his and he was Valjean’s. Although weak, the bond was still there, always pulling, always wanting.

Javert felt a hand grip his hair and force his head up. He looked into Valjean’s eyes and found the expression unreadable. Javert was not afraid, but he was uncertain. How long had it been, eight years? Such a stretch of time could change a man, shape him, mold him, break him. How had the seasons apart treated Jean Valjean? How had the mayor become this man, and who exactly was he?

Valjean slipped the noose out from around Javert’s neck and hauled him to his feet. The students had retreated outside, their faces peering through the windows at the condemned man and his executioner. Javert could feel their eyes burning into him as keenly as his muscles ached. 

He stumbled along, his legs sore and unresponsive after a night in bondage. Valjean’s hand was clamped tight on his shoulder, guiding his former paramour where he wanted. Javert could not tell if Valjean was being rough with him out of his own fury, or if he needed to put on a show for the revolutionaries. 

When they were out of earshot, Valjean asked, “What are you doing here?”

Javert’s voice was hoarse from talking with the child. “My job, and you?” He risked looking at Valjean over his shoulder. “Sedition doesn’t fall into your usual modus operandi.”

Valjean flinched; Javert felt a momentary guilt for putting that pained expression on Valjean’s face. “Cosette has fallen in love with one of the boys,” Valjean explained. 

Javert thought back to that strange morning when he had met the girl. “She had mentioned such a thing,” he muttered aloud. “Too bad it is with one of these unfortunates.”

“I came to save him,” Valjean said, sounding resolute. 

“Good luck,” Javert said; he could not help the dark chuckle that escaped his throat. “The next time the Guard attacks the barricade will fall, and everyone within it will die.”

“I know.” God, the man sounded as resigned to Fate as Javert felt. 

Valjean squeezed Javert’s shoulder and they stopped before a secluded intersection. Windows were barred and doors were locked; there would be no witnesses to their little drama. Javert was turned around, his back pressed against the wall. 

Valjean’s arms bracketed Javert in on either side, pinning him into place. This was it; there were no more reprieves. Javert lowered his gaze. “Do what you have to do.”

He waited, drawing in a slow unsteady breath. A minute passed and nothing happened. There was no blow, no pain, just nothing. Javert raised his head; Valjean was staring at him, eyes fixated on his mouth. Now Javert was irritated. “Well?” he snapped.

Valjean flushed with embarrassment. “I will not take from you anymore, Javert,” he said. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. “I will only accept what is freely given.”

In that moment, Javert’s heart softened. He lifted his bound hands, his fingers grasping at the front of Valjean’s shirt. He tugged the older man forward and pressed their lips together. Javert let his kiss express the years of longing, the despair that had colored their separation. 

As they separated to breathe, Javert was startled to find the taste of salt on his lips. Valjean’s eyes were closed, tears staining his cheeks. “Am I forgiven?” Valjean whispered.

Words should not cut so, should not wound him so deeply. Javert shuddered, shame stealing his dignity. “Am I?” he asked. “I put you in prison.”

Valjean placed his hand on Javert’s cheek, his thumb caressing the face he missed so much. “You did your duty, nothing more.”

Now the words burned him, stinging his pride. Javert jerked his head away, face twisted with anger and self-loathing. “I stole your freedom!” He raised his hands to push Valjean away. “I sent you away to rot!”

“You robbed yourself of happiness to do what you thought was right,” Valjean insisted. He spoke with the gravitas of a man familiar with heartbreak. He took Javert’s hands in his; he would not let Javert get away again. “I understand, Javert. You did it once when you told me of your letter to Paris, and I did the same when I went to Arras.”

Javert searched Valjean’s eyes for anger, for any sign of hatred, and he found none. They had both sacrificed to the alter of righteousness; both had suffered for the sake of a higher call. If Valjean could forgive him, who was he to deny forgiveness to himself? Javert slumped forward, his head cradled against Valjean’s shoulder. “We are a couple of fools, aren’t we?” he said.

He felt Valjean’s arm tighten around him. “Perhaps, but I am your fool and you are mine.” They held each other close for a moment, wishing that the outside world would disappear. They wanted nothing more than for the last few years to melt away, to leave them as they once were, before the recriminations, before duty interfered to drive them apart. But alas, the wishes of lovers are not always meant to be.

Valjean released his hold on Javert, and stepped back. “We don’t have much time,” he said. “I want you to go.”

Javert took note of the use of the pronoun “you;” he did not like it one bit. “What of you, will you not join me?” Javert asked.

“I still have to save Marius,” Valjean said.

Javert scowled. The fool would get himself killed trying to save one boy. The insurrection was doomed; the National Guard would destroy them all. He had just found Valjean again; Javert was not going to lose him. “You will never take him off this barricade alive!”

Valjean shrugged his shoulders; he was not as worried as Javert. “I have to try.”

“No, you don’t,” Javert said. “Marius’s life is not your responsibility.”

“True,” Valjean said, “but Cosette’s happiness is.”

Javert was too tired and in too much pain to argue with the man. Valjean slipped a knife out of his coat pocket, and Javert held out his hands. With a quick cut, Valjean severed the bonds. Valjean took his love’s wrists in his palm, rubbing away the stiffness with his thumbs. “When this is over,” Valjean said, “come to me at de l'Homme Arme, No. 7.”

“What makes you think I will come?” Javert asked, feeling vindictive.

Valjean smiled. “Because it is not in your heart to stay away.”

Damn him. Javert let Valjean wait for a precious moment and he nodded his consent. Valjean released his wrists and whispered, “Go.”

Javert turned to leave, his back stiff and his hands clenched. He took a few steps, and then spun on his heel. He grabbed Valjean by the back of the neck, jerking him forward into another kiss. It was not gentle like the first; there was little tenderness in Javert when he was incensed. He scraped his teeth along Valjean’s bottom lip as he pulled away. “Do not die,” Javert hissed.

Valjean smiled, a little dazed. “I don’t intend to.”

\----

Valjean watched as Javert retreated down the alley. He raised his gun and fired harmlessly at the wall, certain that the sound would travel back to the barricade. He had done it; Javert was safe. 

Seeing the other man kneeling on the floor of the café beaten and bruised had infuriated Valjean. While he was mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer all he had wanted was to protect Javert from harm, to keep the policeman from endangering himself. Valjean had wanted to be a good man and a good partner, but he kept failing. 

It had taken all of his control not to attack the students that he had fought alongside. The only thing that had calmed him down was the fact that he still had to rescue Marius; Cosette was waiting for him. 

Unfortunately, Valjean did not know how to proceed. Marius was loyal and determined, two qualities he would have normally admired but, at the moment, he found them rather irritating. Valjean had failed to persuade Marius to leave with him, so he might have to resort to bodily force.

Even so, there were other obstacles to freedom. One man might sneak past the Guard, but it would be much more difficult with two. The task became even more daunting since Enjolras was currently blocking off all avenues for escape. The young revolutionary was determined to make his stand and he did nothing by halves. 

Although Valjean had all of these factors working against him, he still had faith. God had seen fit to bring Javert back into his life and he would not disappoint his mate by shuffling off this mortal coil too soon. He wanted to share the relationship he had forged with Cosette with Javert. He wanted the other man to experience the same joy he had in his daughter’s company.

It was in that moment when he wandered back to the barricade that his resentment towards Marius started to truly fade away. Of course the young man had fallen in love with her, she was a delight, one of the purest souls Valjean had ever known. He wanted to see this girl blossom into her womanhood; he wanted to see her as a blushing bride, as a mother. Valjean was finally ready to see his little girl grow up and he wanted Javert by his side to witness everything.


	17. The Fall of the Barricade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta: firebirdofthenight

Valjean had seen blood before. He had witnessed the red welts that rose up from men’s backs after a lashing; he had sneered in disgust at the near black of infection from untreated wounds; he had marveled at the dark clots and torn skin that had appeared on his knuckles after beating a man with his fists.

Back in Toulon, Prisoner 24601 had taken sadistic pleasure from this grisly evidence of his savagery. He had nursed his bruises and cuts with pride, knowing that Javert had seen his display. He had known that Javert would be drawn to him, despite any horror he felt at the violence.

Although it had been years, Valjean’s greatest fear was that 24601 was still inside him, and somewhere in the depths of his soul he still enjoyed drawing blood. That the calm peace of the bishop could fade away in an instant was a terror that held Valjean in its thrall. He felt that every good deed, every well-meaning intention would be negated with just one slip. However, if that frightening man was still a part of Valjean, he did not appear the day the barricade fell.

The air was thick with smoke from the cannons, making it difficult to see -- let alone breathe. Valjean tended the wounded, bearing them away from the battle and taking them to the relative safety of the wine shop. He stopped the bleeding, and bandaged the damaged men as best he could. Valjean was no doctor, but he refused to raise a hand against anyone. He would serve in the only capacity he felt was right, as a man of mercy. 

As he played nursemaid, Valjean kept an eye on Marius. Enjolras had retreated to the wine shop to fortify it against the inevitable breach, leaving Marius to command those who remained at the barricade’s edge. Marius had resigned himself to his fate; he was firing on the enemy, ignoring everything else around him. The young man’s focus was directed solely toward the fight.

Marius had already sustained several small wounds; Valjean wondered how he was still standing. He felt a brief stab of envy at the haleness of youth. The feeling did not last. A bullet struck Marius high on his chest, sending him reeling. Valjean gasped in horror at the spray of blood, at the way Marius crumbled to the ground like a child’s discarded toy.

He raced to the young man’s side. “Marius! Marius!”

Marius did not stir; he did not wake. Valjean shook him, desperation creeping into his heart. When Javert had been injured it had roused Valjean’s rage; with Marius it had extinguished his hope. No, it could not end this way! This boy loved Cosette and Cosette loved him. They deserved a chance at happiness.

Valjean was frantic, uncertain what to do. He had to be sure that Marius was really gone. He placed his hand over Marius’ mouth. After a few seconds he felt a tiny exhale and a spot of moisture. Valjean fought to hold the tears back; the boy was alive!

Invigorated, Valjean grasped Marius in his hands and pulled the young man onto his back. With Marius’ wrists secured round his neck, Valjean could bear the weight. Together they would escape and rejoice in a life born anew!

It was easier said than done. Valjean had not had time to survey the landscape after he came back from the alley. The National Guard had attacked and Valjean had been forced to abandon all thoughts of the future just to survive. 

This had kept him alive, but had been useless for formulating a plan. Now Valjean would have to be clever if he was to take Marius with him. As he trudged forward dragging Marius along, Valjean could not help but think that Marius being unconscious was both a blessing and a burden. It was true that Marius could not object to being taken from the scene of his martyrdom, but he also could not assist Valjean in any way. 

There was still a section of the barricade where two streets intersected that could offer refuge. Valjean bore Marius to this spot just as he heard the terrible noise of marching feet enter the square. The soldiers had breached the barricade, climbing through a hole blasted in the redoubt. Valjean had moved Marius just in time; they were not spotted.

Concealed from view, Valjean had just one chance for escape. There was a grate large enough for a man to pass through, if only he could open it. Valjean set Marius down on the ground and approached the grate. It was made of metal and looked old and rusted. He could only hope it was unlocked. 

With a mighty heave of muscle, Valjean pulled the grate open, exposing a deep dark passage. Valjean could not see where it went and, at that moment, did not care. Yes, the odor coming from within was foul, but dead men care nothing for the scent of something sweeter. Valjean shoved Marius into the passage and crawled in behind. He shut up the grate, believing it might throw off any pursuers. 

Valjean took a deep breath, the last clean one he would have for hours, and he pushed Marius before him deeper, ever deeper into the dark.

\----

Joly sucked in breath as best he could; the air was choked with smoke and blood -- and his nose was still congested. Enjolras had pushed all of the remaining men into the wine shop to make their last stand. Joly had climbed up the stairs with two others to the attic. He had a pistol with one shot, and two bottles of wine; otherwise, he was unarmed.

The two other men were hardly better off. Joly guessed that they had perhaps four shots between them. They would have to make them count. He heard a small raucous from downstairs. 

A familiar voice drifted up to him from below. “Go ahead, shoot me!” 

Oh god, Enjolras. Joly grasped the arm of one of his fellows. “They’re going to execute him,” he murmured.

Joly felt his stomach churn as the silence dragged on and on. The wait was awful.

Suddenly, another voice chimed in from the depths of the shop. “I’m one of them.”

Joly shook his head. “Oh, Grantaire.” For a man who claimed not to believe in anything, Grantaire was awfully willing to die. He had joked and teased les Amis about their goals and ideals, but in the end was willing to stand with them. 

Joly closed his eyes in a silent prayer. A terrible noise filled the wine shop, the firecracker pop of guns firing in unison. Joly could imagine the impromptu firing squad, their eyes hard as flint. He could see his friends’ bodies, cold and pale, in his mind’s eye. It was over; they really were all going to die. 

Joly had not seen the moment of his leader’s death but he knew it had to have been noble. He would not disappoint Enjolras by displaying cowardice now. The soldiers fired upward into the attic. 

One of the revolutionaries fell dead. Joly cried out in pain; he had been struck in the leg. The other revolutionary grabbed hold of him and moved him to the window. They struggled onto the roof, Joly feeling more a hindrance than anything else.

Alas, safety did not last long. Several National Guardsmen had climbed up in pursuit of their quarry; Joly and his comrade were trapped. A Guard lunged at Joly, his hands grappling with the ill young man. Joly fought like a wounded animal, snarling and spitting in the face of his attacker. They were locked together in mortal combat, neither willing to yield. 

Though men’s hearts may harden with resolve to never give way, architecture lacks that same conviction. The wine shop was old and her roof was rotting in several places. One wrong step and the two men found themselves hurtling through the air to the body strewn ground below. The National Guardsman’s neck snapped on impact. Joly was struck in the chest, knocking the wind from his body. 

Too stunned to move, Joly lay there, his body weak and frail. He had been ill since before the insurrection had started, and he had taken little nourishment. Joly could not take any further abuse, not even to escape. He closed his eyes to rest and did not open them again until night had fallen. 

\----

Javert’s flight from the barricade was uneventful. Since the revolutionaries had given him back his identification, all it had taken was a wave of the round card to stay the hand of any trigger happy solider. He was escorted to Prefect Gisquet where he gave his report.

As always Javert was brief and to the point; he was accurate and did not embellish the facts. He did not demonize the students who had held him hostage, he merely told the Prefect what had happened, with certain obvious omissions. “The man felt sorry for me and let me go,” Javert concluded.

“Really?” Gisquet asked.

Javert shrugged, trying to remain as nonchalant as possible. “I believe he wanted to serve his cause and felt that my execution did not fall into that view. There is a vast difference between killing as a solider and acting as a murderer.”

Javert was not certain that Gisquet believed him, but the man did not seem inclined to question him further. “All right, Inspector,” Gisquet said. “I’ll have you sign an official statement later but right now I have other concerns. I have to put you back into the field.”

“Excuse me?” Javert was tired, he had not really slept while he was trussed up, and, although he was used to some overtime, this seemed a little excessive.

“I’m sorry, but we are short on men. The army is focused on the insurrection and so are some of our agents. The criminal element has come out in full force and they need to be contained. Men are dying out there for God and country and their corpses are being robbed,” Gisquet explained. “Under other circumstances I would let you rest but I can’t do that just yet.”

Of course, justice had to be served first. Javert nodded his consent. “I understand.”

“Good, change into your uniform and get to the Seine. There have been reports of criminals using the sewer system to evade capture. See what you can do,” Gisquet ordered.

Javert bowed his head and took his leave. As he was about to leave the building he heard a gasp of surprise from behind him. “Javert! You survived.”

He turned to see the astonished face of Cloutier. Cloutier’s eyes were a conflicted mix of joy and hatred; Javert could not understand the man. “Yes, no thanks to you,” Javert snapped. 

Cloutier’s meaty hand clamped down on his shoulder. “You are not sore at me for volunteering you, are you Javert?”

Javert shook Cloutier off. He had no time to deal with the older officer and his presence was unwelcome. “I still have work to do, Cloutier,” Javert said.

Cloutier did not move; in fact, he pushed himself in front of Javert, preventing the other man from leaving. Cloutier’s eyes narrowed. “I know what you are,” he said, voice low. He stepped forward, trying to drive Javert back, displaying his size to its full advantage. “I can smell it on you. You’re not even trying to hide it.”

Damn, Javert had forgotten all about that aspect of his disguise. “So?” Javert said with bravado. “What of it?”

“A man like you doesn’t belong on the police force,” Cloutier said, purring into Javert’s ear. “Others may find him _distracting_.” 

“Others like you,” Javert countered. He had gone too far, had done too much as an officer to be intimidated by a wayward aggressive. “Cloutier, I nearly died tonight; I don’t give a damn what you think.” Javert shoved the older man, forcing him out of the doorway.

“I’ll tell Gisquet,” Cloutier threatened, stumbling to block Javert’s way. “I don’t care how good you think you are, he knows that a submissive doesn’t have a place here.”

“You can tell Gisquet anything you like,” Javert said. In truth, Javert was terrified of Gisquet learning about his nature. Yes, Javert was loyal, Javert was dedicated, but in the grand scheme of things he was ultimately expendable. Years of service meant little in the face of public opinion and Javert did not know how a man like Gisquet would react. But Javert could not afford to let Cloutier know his doubts, not now, not at this critical juncture.

“The force is short on men and Paris needs us out on patrol,” Javert insisted. “You can try and drum me out now but all it will do is hurt this city in her hour of need.” He stared straight into the older man’s eyes, face grim. “Are you really that petty, Cloutier?”

Cloutier remained silent. For one moment, Javert feared he would not be allowed to pass, that all was lost; then Cloutier looked away. His arms were stiff at his sides, his fists tight, but he stepped aside. 

Javert marched past him; letting his feet move as quickly as they dared. He still needed to change, to shed this false skin and replace it with the uniform he loved. As he fled, Javert was well aware that this could be the last patrol of his career.


	18. The Sewers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta: firebirdofthenight

The missus was out of the lockup and Thenardier couldn’t be happier. The insurrection would throw the city into chaos, making for easy pickings that he wouldn’t have to share with the other members of his gang. Tonight, Thenardier could be a single operator and rake it in. The Thenardiers were back in business.

Mme. Thenardier was working the safe houses and taverns, seeing what she could pocket from the unsuspecting, while Thenardier worked the streets, pilfering from the dead like he had done after the battle of Waterloo. He would have enlisted the help of his children -- but he had not seen Eponine, that ungrateful wretch, since the day he tried to rob the house on Rue Plummet. His luck with Azelma had not been much better. 

The girl had had the audacity to scream at him and throw crockery at his head. Apparently the months she had spent in jail had cooled any familial affection and Azelma had found a legitimate job. She preferred her life of drudgery to any schemes of her father’s. Well, it was no skin off Thenardier’s nose; he would just keep the spoils to himself. 

And Mme. Thenardier, of course.

With a solid night’s work the two of them could live easy for a while. Or perhaps they would even skip town, get out of France altogether and search for greener pastures elsewhere. The honor of thieves only went so far and if the brats had decided to abandon him, then Thenardier had no problem leaving them behind. Besides, it was time for the girls to get out on their own, stretch their wings and leave the nest.

Only one thing could ruin his plans: police interference. The cops should have been busy with the riots, assisting the National Guard. Thenardier should have had the streets to himself, so he was damned surprised to find Inspector Javert on his tail. The policeman kept a respectable distance -- most wouldn’t have realized he was there -- but Thenardier was not the type to get by on his good looks alone.

He had to ditch the Inspector and do it quick if he was going to get any work done tonight. Thenardier made his way down the bank of the Seine to a sewer grate he knew well. He had a key to the whole system that let him go wherever he pleased whenever he pleased. Thenardier knew that most policemen couldn’t get in and it would make for a handy escape.

Thenardier made a dash for it, running as fast as his legs could carry him. He heard the steady footsteps of Inspector Javert increase in tempo as the man tried to match his speed. Fortunately for Thenardier, he had enough of a lead that he could get to the grate, unlock it and shut it behind him before Javert could get his hands on him. 

The villain chuckled to himself at his own cunning. Oh, he was a slippery one; Javert had caught him once before, but the old man would have to work twice as hard now. 

\----

Jean Valjean’s escape route was not everything he could have wished for. If Valjean had been asked, he would have requested more light, more air, that the floor were dry and that his companion could walk under his own power. As it was, Valjean grit his teeth and prayed that for just a few scant moments he could forget that he was wading through other people’s excrement. 

He navigated as best he could without a light. Valjean had a vague idea that the descending passages would lead him to the Seine, but that if he exited too close to the barricade he and Marius would find their journey abruptly ended. So he trudged on, further and further into the stink, into the filth that clung to his legs and slowed his progress. Further into the terrifying noises of rats scurrying beyond his sight. A few rats were merely a nuisance, but a pack of them—

Valjean shuddered, trying to banish the terrible visions from his mind. He hated this place. There were no maps, no guides to tell him where he was, nor how far he was from his goal. His hope was dwindling, falling solely to chance or Providence that he and Marius would live and be free.

Valjean’s step faltered and he had to admit temporary defeat. He set Marius down, trying to keep him from falling in the muck. In the scant light provided from an overhead grate, Valjean attempted to dress the young man’s wounds. Everything was worse than he thought and being in this foul environment would only aggravate Marius’ condition.

As he patched up the young man, Valjean noticed a note shoved into Marius’ coat pocket. Valjean looked it over; it contained an address for a grandfather. It was a last request, to give his body to a beloved relative. This both eased Valjean’s mind and made things more complicated. 

Once they left the sewer, he would have to find his way to this M. Gillenormand. Let the grandfather take care of Marius without bringing Cosette into danger. She could go to him once the boy was well. Yes, this was the proper way of things. 

He let himself rest for a few moments, willing the strength back into his muscles and bones. Valjean had always been a strong man, but now he was starting to feel his age. Was it the battle that drained him, the impenetrable blackness or just a natural consequence of a life lived? Valjean did not know, but he was certain that if he and Marius did not escape soon, they would never leave the dark. 

\----

The pressure was the first thing Joly noticed. There was a great weight on top of him and he was surrounded by a fleshy mass. The ground underneath him swayed slightly, and every once in a while he felt a jolt. He could hear the clatter of wagon wheels against the street. Joly moaned, his body ached and he had no idea where he was. 

He opened his eyes and, to his horror, discovered just what he was lying prone within. It was hardly his first dead body, being a medical student, but there was a vast difference between examining a cadaver and lying in a pile of men he had once known. Oh god, he had seen these same men alive only a few hours ago. 

Oh god, oh god. Joly choked back a scream; he could not risk alerting anyone. He had to get out of here, had to leave this place of death. Joly wriggled forward, crawling as best he could, wincing every time his hands pressed against something soft or wet. He pulled himself along, his muscles screaming with the strain. 

After what seemed like an eternity, he could see the edge and the street below. He and the other presumed dead had been heaped up on a cart. Joly did not know where they were heading, but he knew where he had to go: down. With a mighty heave, Joly propelled himself out from under the weight pinning him and toppled to the ground.

The cart made a loud enough clatter that the driver never noticed the sound of a body dropping. Joly bit back a cry of agony; his leg had stopped bleeding a while ago but the pain was excruciating. He had to get off the street. Joly hauled himself to his feet and hobbled to the secure darkness of the alleys. 

Joly took a quiet assessment of the situation. He was safe and he was alive but he wouldn’t be for long if he stayed in the open. He needed to treat his wounds, find a place to recover, but where? He could not go home. Even if it was safe now there was no guarantee that the National Guard would not show up looking for him. The other students’ houses had the same problem. 

In the end, there was only one place to go; only one place where he would be welcome and safe. Joly made his way through the streets of Paris, keeping to the dark, resting frequently. His leg throbbed in agony and it slowed him down. He worried about infection, about how to treat the poisoned blood running through his veins. He worried about the future, about how he was going to live now that the others were gone.

But most of all, he worried about the woman whose door he would grace, if only his legs were faster. If only he hadn’t been shot, if only he had died with the others, if only—

He knocked his fist on the familiar door, his strength finally failing him. Joly could not recall how long it took him to get there, how his steps had been dogged with fear. All he could see, as the door opened, was the lovely caring face of his Mushichetta.

\----

Now that Thenardier had some time to himself he realized that there were a few flaws in his plan. First of all, in his haste to leave his temporary hovel, Thenardier had forgotten to bring a light. Despite this, he had tried to venture further into the sewer but discovered that it was impossible to figure out where he was. Yes, Thenardier had used the sewer route before, but it is very easy to lose your way in the twisting passageways that characterized the sewage system.

Also, he realized, if Javert was out patrolling near the Seine it stood to reason that there might be other patrols out there as well. And those men might have keys to the grates, unlike the formidable Javert. 

So, Thenardier thought that he could just wait Javert out. The problem was, that this was Javert. An ordinary policeman would have given up after a half hour, but not Javert. Either Thenardier would have to wait all night to see if the Inspector would go away, or find some patsy to take the fall for him.

Hours later, Thenardier heard a noise far down the passage, and if it was a rat, it was a man-sized one. He ducked out of sight and waited; this could be the break he was waiting for. In the scant light he could just make out a man carrying a large burden. Oh, did someone else get the same idea Thenardier did? 

If so, the man was going to pay dearly for it. Thenardier watched as the man made it to the grate and set down his burden. It was a body! Oh, what luck, a murderer! Now Thenardier knew that he had this man over a barrel.

He had to hold back a laugh as the man tried the grate and failed to open it. The man actually sank to his knees and started to cry. Oh this was rich! Thenardier was the luckiest bastard in all of Paris.

Filled with confidence, he approached the man and kicked at him with his foot. “Hey now,” Thenardier said. “None of that. Give me half shares and I’ll open her up.”

“What?”

The man turned to look at him, and even in the darkness Thenardier could see the man was confused. As he glanced the man over Thenardier could not help but think he knew him from somewhere before -- but could not place him. In the daytime, he might have been able to recognize the man in an instant but the sewers were no place for reunions: friendly or not. 

“Come on, you knocked this man over for something. Give me half and I’ll let you borrow this key.” Thenardier reached into his pocket and held it out. Even in the gloom he knew that the other man could tell what it was.

“I’ll even sweeten the deal,” Thenardier said. “I’ve got this rope and you can have one of these rocks here for free.”

The man shifted, trying to get off his knees. “What would I need those for?” the man asked.

Thenardier rolled his eyes. What kind of a murderer was this? “To dispose of the body, of course,” he said, feeling like he was explaining a simple concept to a child. “I mean you’ve dragged this man all the way to the Seine, you can’t just throw him in there without weighing him down, the body would come right back up.”

“Right,” the man said, as if considering something. “Of course.”

“So, are we in accord then?” Thenardier asked.

The man nodded.

“Good, empty your pockets.”

The murderer had a terrible haul. They were all small coins, the sort of loose change that could be pickpocketed off anyone. Where was the gold, the jewels, and the valuable stuff? Maybe it was on the body. “Here,” Thenardier insisted. He shoved the man aside and riffled through the pockets of the dead man. It was not much better, but at least it was something.

There was no way Thenardier was taking only half of this measly haul. He sneered at the murderer. “You hold human life too cheap,” he said. Then he took all of the money and a fancy looking ring he might be able to fence. No sense in letting the goods stay with someone that stupid. 

Thenardier unlocked the grate and pushed it open. “There,” he said. “Be off with you and don’t forget your other goodies.”

The man picked up the dead body and set it across his shoulders. With one sarcastic wave, Thenardier saw the man off. The second the man was out of sight, Thenardier slammed the grate and locked it.

This was perfect; there was no way Javert would wait around for a petty thief like Thenardier with a murderer walking around right in front of him. In just a few moments Thenardier would be free of the policeman’s interference and he could get to business as usual with a few extra sous in his pocket. 

Paris had no shortage of suckers, did she?


	19. The Carriage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta: firebirdofthenight

It was a miracle, there was no other way that Valjean could describe it. Yes, Thenardier was probably the man he hated most in the world, but he had held the key to salvation. For the price of a few measly coins Thenardier had opened the door out of the foul dungeon of Paris’s sewers to the fresh air and moonlit night of her river. 

Valjean knew that he was not quite free, but the taste of liberty lay heavy on his tongue. Marius was a comfortable, solid weight on his back now instead of a burden. Valjean was still tired, but he felt his spirits renew at the sight of the peaceful Seine. 

“Halt!” a masculine voice commanded. 

Valjean froze in fear. A policeman, here at the waterfront? What was he to do? Valjean had gone too far to be stopped now but he would not harm another soul, not even to ensure his own freedom. 

There came another command. “Turn around.”

Valjean did as he was bade, his eyes downcast. He was covered in filth and carrying the limp body of another man. No explanation, no excuse would permit him escape from the law’s scrutiny.

Valjean looked up, resigned to his fate. His mouth dropped open when he saw who it was. “Javert.”

Javert was back in uniform, looking neat and pressed as always except for the wound on his head. He had a pistol leveled at Valjean, his face filled with righteousness. He was the very picture of the Law personified. The image lasted until the moment Javert recognized his quarry.

Javert frowned and asked, “Valjean?” 

Valjean stepped further into the moonlight, allowing it to illuminate his face. Once Javert confirmed Valjean’s identity, he holstered the pistol. “Is that the boy?” he asked.

“Yes,” Valjean said, more relieved than he would admit at seeing Javert put away his weapon. He set Marius down upon the ground, allowing himself to rest. “He’s been wounded.”

Javert took a handkerchief and soaked it with water from the river. He tried to wipe some of the muck from Marius’ face but had little success. He examined the young man as best he could without actually touching him. “Did you carry him all this way?” Javert asked.

Valjean nodded, watching the rise and fall of Marius’ chest. The boy was still breathing but Valjean was not sure for how much longer. His limbs ached and his muscles were weary. It pained him to admit, but Valjean was not a young man any more. “I don’t know how much further I can go on.”

Javert stood and discarded his ruined handkerchief. “I don’t think taking him to a hospital is wise,” he said.

Valjean silently agreed. “There’s an address in his coat pocket, a grandfather,” Valjean explained. “I wish to take him there.”

Javert looked at Valjean, an eyebrow raised. “Old money?” 

“Judging from the address, yes.” Though he had no personal acquaintance with the address in question, Valjean had some understanding of the neighborhood. Despite his solitary existence, Valjean and Cosette had managed to eavesdrop on some interesting gossip in the church pews. “It is a Gillenormand, Rue des Filles-du Calvaire, No. 6,” Valjean answered. 

“They might have their own doctor,” Javert muttered. “Someone who knows how to keep quiet.” Javert paced away from Valjean, his gaze fixed on the sewer grate. Valjean watched him with some curiosity.

The Inspector was staring at the now locked grate, an internal struggle clear on his face. Whatever was going on, Valjean had little patience for it. Marius was still in need of treatment and they had to form a plan.

“Javert?” Valjean asked, interrupting the other’s thoughts.

Javert gave the grate one last look and turned away. He marched past Valjean and Marius’ prone form. “Come,” he ordered, indicating with a hand wave that Valjean should follow. “I have a carriage waiting.”

Valjean rose to his feet and picked Marius off the ground. A carriage, what need would Javert have for such a thing? “Javert,” Valjean asked, “what is wrong? Why do you have a carriage?” 

“I’ll explain later,” Javert, insisted; his face was grim but his voice was gentle. ”Right now, this boy is more important.”

Valjean followed the Inspector to where the vehicle was waiting and placed Marius upon the backseat. Valjean and Javert shared the front, leaving some space between themselves for propriety’s sake -- and because Javert was disgusted by the smell of excrement. 

Once the carriage began to move, Valjean felt it was safe to ask what Javert was doing at the entrance to the sewers.

“I was sent out on patrol again after I escaped from the barricade,” Javert explained. “I was ordered to secure the waterfront and I happened to spot Thenardier. I followed him to the grate and have been waiting for him for hours. The carriage was to carry him back to headquarters once I’d arrested him.” 

Valjean chuckled, feeling a little sheepish. “He was the one who unlocked the grate for me,” he admitted, wondering how Javert would react. 

“Hoping to distract the law with a sacrificial lamb,” Javert said, taking a stab at Thenardier’s motives. He leaned back in his seat, shaking his head. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

Valjean looked away and whispered, “I never meant to interfere.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Javert said, voice free of recrimination, “you dislike the man even more than I do.” There was a brief silence as Javert thought of another concern. “Did he recognize you in the sewer?”

“No,” Valjean shook his head, “he thought I was a murderer!”

Javert actually laughed at that; it was a mirthless sound, completely devoid of humor. “It’s a good thing for you that he can’t tell a live man from a dead one.”

“True,” Valjean said. “Even so, Thenardier only knows me as the man who took Cosette; he knows nothing else.”

“Are you certain?” Javert asked.

Valjean could not help but find Javert’s concern touching. “Yes -- he wants money from me, nothing more.” The man was devious; if he had known anything about Valjean’s past he would not hesitate to blackmail Valjean. Still, there was the note of warning -- he would be remiss if he did not mention it to Javert. “Our home at the Rue Plummet was compromised,” Valjean said, “but Cosette and I have already vacated the property.”

Javert nodded, taking the information in. They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. There was still so much to say, so much to discuss and Valjean had no idea where to begin. 

He cleared his throat, attracting Javert’s attention again. “Speaking of Rue Plummet, my darling Cosette invited you to our home; you did not come.”

Javert frowned in exasperation. “I don’t know if you had noticed, Valjean, but Paris was under attack,” he said. “I could not abandon my post for even a solitary pleasant afternoon.” Javert’s face flushed and he crossed his arms at the admission. “Besides, you know that I’ve never let my heart override my duty.”

It was not a boast, but a simple truth - one that Valjean knew all too well. Javert had written to the Prefecture before when he had suspected Madeleine; what would he do now that Valjean was here beside him? Would Valjean have to fear arrest for the rest of his life? He dared to ask the question: “What does your duty say now?”

Javert stiffened in his seat. He avoided looking at Valjean and seemed to curl in on himself, struggling to find the right words, the right answer. The air between them became stifling and unbearable. Finally, Javert said: “My duty tells me that the Parisian Police have no business with dead men.”

Valjean was baffled. “What do you mean?” 

Javert sighed and composed himself to explain. “Prisoner 9340 died rescuing a sailor from the _Orion,_ ” he said. “And all of the students involved in the barricades have died. Thus, the police have no need of further investigation in these matters.”

The amount of mental gymnastics necessary to come to such a conclusion was something that Valjean was not certain he would ever understand. “Are you telling me that because Valjean ‘died’ in prison and because Marius might be dead—”?

“All the men on the barricades who could have identified him have been killed,” Javert clarified.

“That because these men are ‘dead,’” Valjean said, “the police-- including you-- have no need to arrest me?”

Javert slowly nodded. “Yes.”

This was simultaneously both the happiest and the most ludicrous news that Valjean had ever heard. Javert was willing to let him live free, to set him and Marius at liberty, over a technicality. “Is that all you have to say?” Valjean asked.

There was a pregnant pause before Javert answered: “Consider it Cosette’s wedding present.”

\----

Marius was safely deposited at his grandfather’s house. Javert had knocked at the door and gained the attention of the grand home’s staff who set to work making Marius as comfortable as possible. With the boy resting and getting medical treatment, Valjean felt that it was safe to retreat to his own home. 

With the carriage paid for and dismissed, they were now two men standing before the door, one clean and pressed, the other covered in muck, both still tentative, both still hesitant over they want. Without Marius as a distraction, Valjean found himself at a loss. “Will you come in, Javert?” he asked. 

Javert clutched his hat in his hands, his eyes looking everywhere but at Valjean. “I should report back to the station—“

“Please,” Valjean pleaded. He could not bear for Javert to leave, not now. “Don’t do this.”

Javert raised his head to meet Valjean’s gaze. “Do what?”

“I do not wish to be alone,” Valjean said. “Not tonight.”

“You have your daughter,” Javert said. It was an excuse, a poor one at that, and Valjean could see that the Inspector’s resolve was faltering. 

Valjean opened the front door and held it open. He had never gotten anywhere with Javert with threats, with coercion or with violence. Only one thing had ever moved Javert before and Valjean felt no regrets about using it. He said only a single word in a voice filled with gentle urging: “Please.”

As before, Javert allowed himself to bend before Valjean’s will. He sighed and made his way passed Valjean onto the stairs. Valjean was shocked to discover how nervous he suddenly felt. Javert was in his home, was reentering his life. Before it had been a thought and now the reality of the situation hit him as they made their way to his apartment. 

Cosette and Javert had met before, but from what Cosette had said it had been a brief encounter. What if they met again and did not like each other? What if Cosette discovered what had happened between Javert and her mother? Valjean broke out in a sweat; this was a terrible idea. He was not ready for these two halves of his life to collide yet. He had nothing prepared to say, he had no idea how to proceed. Valjean could not bear the thought of his mate and his child being at odds.

Before he could change his mind, Inspector Javert knocked at the door. It opened less than a moment later; Cosette had been up waiting for her father.

A pleased look crossed Cosette’s face when she saw who was at the door. “Good evening, Inspector,” Cosette said. “What brings you here—“ At that moment, Cosette turned her head to take in her father’s form. She paled in horror. “Papa!” she exclaimed. “What on earth are you covered in?”


	20. Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta: firebirdofthenight

Cosette ushered the two men into the apartment, closing the door behind them. She led them into the kitchen, fretting over her Papa’s appearance. “What happened?” she asked, her nose wrinkling at the smell. 

Valjean kept silent, his eyes downcast as if he were afraid to admit his own heroism. Whatever emotion held Valjean’s tongue did not hamper Javert.

“Your father went to the barricades to save your young man,” Javert explained.

Cosette paused; though her body was still, her hands trembled. “How is he?” she asked, her voice soft with concern.

Something about Cosette’s distress moved Valjean to speak. “He was gravely injured, but he is safe now.” Valjean reached out to touch his daughter’s shoulder but remembered himself and withdrew his hand. “We took him to his grandfather’s house.”

“But how did you manage such a thing?” Cosette looked between the two men, awaiting an answer.

“He carried Marius through the sewers,” Javert said. “The barricade was surrounded and it was the only avenue of escape.” 

Cosette turned her astonished gaze to Valjean. “You carried him, Papa?”

Valjean flushed with embarrassment. “Yes.”

“I knew you were strong, but—“ Cosette’s face shone with deep admiration and joy. If Valjean ever feared losing the love of his little girl, those fears were dispelled at that moment. Cosette shook her head, as if to shake herself out of a daze. “It’s getting late, you must be exhausted,” she said. “I’ll have Toussaint warm some water. We get you cleaned up and we’ll burn these clothes.”

“You will not!” Valjean objected.

Cosette sighed. “Papa, they are filthy.”

Valjean shook his head. “I won’t have you destroying good clothes.”

Cosette placed her hands on a clean spot on Valjean’s body and shoved him into the bathroom. “Not another word.” She closed the door with a firm hand. “Toussaint will be with you in a moment,” she called through the door, “just rest Papa.”

Javert stood by while this little family comedy played out, feeling more and more out of place. He wondered about the state of the family’s finances considering Valjean’s violent reaction. Javert knew that the man had been wealthy in M. sur M. but he also had a habit of giving most of his money away. “Does he have another set of clothes, Mademoiselle?” Javert asked, thinking of his own monetary issues.

“Yes,” Cosette said, “and even if he didn’t we could afford another set.” There was a stubborn set to her jaw that reminded Javert of Mayor Madeleine’s discourses on social inequities. “I will not have my Papa walking around in filth.”

A tiny smile twitched at Javert’s mouth; Valjean was in good hands. 

“Come have some tea with me, Monsieur Inspector.” Cosette did not wait for an answer but went straight to the kitchen; she obviously expected Javert to follow. Not one to disappoint a hostess, Javert did as he was bid. He sat down as Cosette prepared a kettle. “How did you become involved in this adventure, M. Inspector?”

Javert kept his answer simple and hoped she would not press any further. “I was at the barricade as a police spy and your Papa freed me when I was captured.” He felt a little stiff sitting there in his uniform while Cosette puttered around in her dressing gown. “To be honest, I was not expecting to see him again.”

Cosette looked over her shoulder and said pointedly, “But you did.”

“Yes, it was a coincidence,” Javert insisted. “I happened to be patrolling where he emerged from the sewer and I had a carriage. That was the only hand I had in the affair; I won’t take credit for another man’s deeds.” 

“Even so, you must be tired as well,” she said. Cosette turned, her eyes filled with an eagerness to please. “I’ll fetch you a cold plate; you and Papa can share when he is clean.” There was something about the tilt of her head that reminded Javert of her mother. It disturbed him more than he could say.

Javert shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Please, Inspector.” Cosette gave him a warm smile. “It is the least I can do after you’ve helped Papa with Marius.”

Guilt gnawed at Javert’s belly, he could not accept having this girl serve him. This was the girl Fantine had cried for; this was the child Javert had nearly separated from the man who had raised her out of generosity. Javert had tried to arrest both her mother and the man she considered her father; he could not bear her kindness. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “I find that your hospitality is undeserved.”

“Cosette, Inspector,” she insisted, her hands busy with slicing some cold ham. “You are my father’s mate and deserve my utmost respect.”

“Madam—Cosette, you don’t understand.” Javert was not going to let this charade continue. “I am not comfortable with you being so kind to me; I was not kind to your mother.”

Cosette paused, the hand holding the knife stilled. “What do you mean?” 

“What has Val—your Papa told you about your mother?” Javert asked.

“He’s told me some things over the years when I’ve asked,” Cosette replied. She set the knife down and turned to face Javert. “He talked to her quite a bit when she was sick, just before she died.”

“I would think so,” Javert said. “He spent a lot of time at her side in the hospital.” 

“Did you?” Cosette asked.

“No.” Javert had been too angry, too fearful of the knowledge that his mate was really the convict Jean Valjean to concern himself with the fate of an ill prostitute. Besides, any visits from him would not have done the poor woman any good; Javert’s jealous presence would not have been conducive to recovery. 

Cosette waited for him to elaborate, but Javert was not ready for that, not yet. “Did he tell you anything about your father?” he asked.

“Only that he was an aggressive and that he couldn’t bond with my mother,” Cosette said. 

“So he seduced her and left when she became pregnant?” Javert had not actually heard this piece of history but was making an educated guess. It was a sad story, the sort repeated over and over again of men using a woman’s heart to get into her bed. It was terrible, but there was nothing illegal about it. Javert could intellectually understand the fear that would drive men away at the prospect of being a father, although he felt that their spinelessness was unforgivable. 

“No Inspector,” Cosette replied, “I was already walking by then. I had just learned how to say, ‘Papa’ and my mother wanted to show me off.”

Javert felt his stomach drop. What sort of a coward was this man? Javert had some idea of how children developed from his correspondence with Lambert. For Cosette to have been toddling around and speaking she would have been over a year old, possibly older. The man had known this child for months, had seen her, held her, spoken to her, and he still abandoned her.

Cosette’s lips were tight. “I feel the same way when I think about him,” she said. 

“I’m sorry,” Javert blurted out. The words could not change the past, could not reshape it, but they were sincere. 

The kettle shrieked, startling Cosette. She moved the hot kettle to another burner and ignored it in favor of a bottle of wine. It was a good vintage; she set the bottle and two glasses upon the table. Javert looked at the wine in surprise.

“I don’t usually partake,” he said.

“I don’t either, Inspector, but I believe we will be needing this,” Cosette said. 

Javert nodded in silent agreement and opened the bottle. Cosette busied herself with the cold plate, adding cheese and some bread. By the time the repast was ready, Javert had poured the wine. 

They sat across from each other, trying to figure out how to break the silence. “So your mother got a job at a factory, leaving you in the care of the innkeepers,” Javert prompted.

Cosette held the glass of wine in her hand, her posture stiff. Javert had no details about the girl’s stay with the Thenardiers, but from what he had seen of the inside of the inn and his own later experience with the couple, he knew it could not have been pleasant. 

Cosette took a sip of wine to steady her nerves. “I do not remember much -- it’s mostly just impressions -- but they were not good to me,” she said. “Papa says that she wouldn’t have left me there if she had known.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Javert said. When Valjean had supposedly died, Javert had talked with some of the women of the town to get more information on Fantine. He had remembered that Valjean had been interested in retrieving her child but knew little about its location. It was then that he discovered that Fantine was giving the majority of her money to the innkeepers for the upkeep of her child. 

“The factory had rules against unmarried women with children,” Javert said. “Otherwise you would have come with her to M. sur M.”

“I don’t understand.” Cosette took another sip of wine. “They would need to feed their children too, why wouldn’t they be allowed to work?”

Javert tried to think of how best to explain it. “At the time, I believe the mayor was trying to keep fraternization and abuses among employees low.” At Cosette’s confused look, Javert continued: “Madeleine and I never really talked that much about the factory, just day to day things.”

“Who is Madeleine?” Cosette asked.

Javert did not want to get into that part of the story tonight, there was barely going to be time to discuss Fantine. “It was the name your Papa used when he was mayor.”

Cosette gasped. “He was a mayor?” 

“Yes, and I was the Inspector who worked under him.” Javert’s stomach rumbled and he finally took advantage of the food Cosette placed before him. He took a sip of wine before he continued. “Somehow it was discovered that you existed and your mother was fired.”

Cosette nodded, she knew this part of the story. What was coming was the difficult part, the terrible circumstances that plagued her mother thereafter.

“Your mother—“

Javert thought back to when he questioned the other prostitutes about the woman known as Fantine, the mixture of glee and pity in their voices as they told him of her troubles. How they recalled the young woman with the beautiful hair and perfect teeth and how she had sold them both. He shuddered when he remembered how she looked the night he had arrested her, how thin, how pale and frail she seemed; the frightful appearance of her shorn head and the dark glimpse of missing teeth when she smiled too broadly. 

“Your mother tried many different ways to make money, even selling her hair and her teeth, but none of them were enough.” Javert wanted to hold his tongue, but Cosette’s earnest face urged him on. “She finally resorted to unseemly means to make a living.”

Cosette question was quiet, “Doing what, Inspector?”

Javert took a gulp of wine to fortify his courage. “Do you know what a prostitute is, Cosette?”

“Javert!” The shocked voice was nearly a roar. Javert and Cosette looked up to see Valjean standing in the doorway. He was dressed in a shirt that gaped open a little too far for Javert’s comfort and his skin was a faint pink from his recent bath. “What are you telling Cosette?”

“We are talking about my mother and why the Inspector believes he doesn’t deserve my kindness,” Cosette said, unperturbed at her father’s presence. She indicated an empty chair, “Please join us.”

“Javert,” Valjean leaned over Javert’s chair, his hands clutching at his mate’s shoulders. “I don’t think she needs to hear any of this.”

“I think she does,” Javert countered. “I will not accept this young lady’s hospitality under false circumstances.”

“Papa, please,” Cosette pleaded. “I know something awful happened to my mother and I want to know. I need to know.”

All these years Valjean had tried to protect his daughter from the harshness of reality. He had struggled to keep her from the fear and the sorrow that had plagued her earlier life. Now she was growing up and she did not wish for shelter but for the truth. “I warn you Cosette, it is not a pleasant story and you may think on me differently,” Valjean said.

“You are not to blame for what happened to Fantine,” Javert argued.

“It was my factory that fired her, my rules,” Valjean said.

“Rules you would have bent for her,” Javert retorted. 

“Yes, but—“

“Papa,” Cosette silenced her father’s protests with a single look. She turned her formidable gaze to Javert. “Please Inspector, just tell me what happened with you and my mother.”

Javert sighed and waited for Valjean to take a seat. Once the man was settled, Javert decided that it was time to cease dancing around the subject. “One night several years later, your mother attacked a citizen, scratching his face. I arrested her for assault and took her to the station. I had sentenced her to six months but Mayor Madeleine intervened on her behalf.”

“She had been attacked first,” Valjean explained. “She was only protecting herself.”

“I did not see Bambatois attacking Fantine,” Javert said, “only her retaliation.”

Valjean shook his head. This was an old argument, but one they had never had the chance to finish. “There were other witnesses.”

“Witnesses who never stepped forward until after she had died,” Javert said. “If any one of them had said something at the time, I would have taken Bambatois into custody as well.” 

Valjean slapped his hand against the table, standing to tower over Javert. “You didn’t give anyone a chance to defend her, you hauled her away as quickly as you could!” he snapped, his ire from that long ago afternoon coming back.

Javert flinched at Valjean’s anger; he snarled in response. “In the end what does it matter? You overrode my authority and she never spent a single day in prison!” 

There was a long silence as they glared at each other, neither willing to back down. A delicate cough reminded the two men that they were not alone. Valjean lowered himself back into his seat, trying to calm down. Javert looked away, embarrassed at his own outburst. They waited for Cosette’s reaction. “What happened afterward?” she asked, her voice quiet.


	21. Good Intentions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> betaed by firebirdofthenight

“I took her to the hospital to give her the mercy that she needed,” Valjean said. He ignored Javert’s huff of indignation. “Unfortunately, she was too weak and the sickness had ravaged her body. She pleaded with me to retrieve you so she could see you one last time.”

“Why didn’t you retrieve the child?” Javert asked.

“My duties as Mayor kept me busy, and I honestly thought that the Thenardiers were going to send me Cosette,” Valjean said. 

Javert shook his head. “You always put too much faith in others’ charity.”

“And you took too much stock in their wickedness,” Valjean countered. Cosette squeezed her father’s arm, trying to get him back to the subject. “I’m sorry, my dear.” He gave his daughter a sheepish smile before composing himself. “Weeks passed and I was still receiving letters from the innkeepers demanding more and more money. It seemed that no matter how much I paid, they were determined to take more. Then there was an incident.”

Valjean fidgeted in his seat. He looked over at Javert, clearly asking for the other man’s help. How could he possibly explain the course of events that led to his disgrace as mayor without discussing his entire past? 

Javert sighed. It seemed that Valjean would have a hard time continuing the tale, and the night was wearing on. “Weeks after I attempted to arrest your mother, I came to see your Papa about a legal matter.” Javert knew that this was a gross understatement, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.

“It was the middle of the night and your Papa was visiting your mother,” Javert said. Oh, how was he going to say this without being dishonest? “We got into an argument, it became very heated.” Javert felt awkward even explaining this. He sighed and took the plunge. “The shock and noise from it killed your mother.” 

Cosette stared at the two men with a blank expression on her face. “You argued in front of my mother,” she said slowly, as if parsing out the meaning of the words, “and it killed her.”

“Yes,” Valjean replied.

There was a strained silence. Javert and Valjean looked away from the intensity of Cossette’s stare. Her face was inscrutable, her inner turmoil hidden beneath unfathomable blue eyes. Finally, she spoke. “Do you think me a child?” 

Valjean blinked, startled at Cosette’s reaction. “No, Cosette.”

“Then why do you think I would believe this story?” she asked. Cosette turned her attention to the Inspector. “Do you honestly believe that because you raised your voice in front of my mother, you killed her?” she asked Javert. “Is that why you won’t accept my hospitality?”

She was glaring at him with all the barely contained ferocity of an aggressive. Javert had held out under such looks before, but with Cosette it was very difficult. “That is not all of it, Mademoiselle.” 

“I should certainly think not,” Cosette snapped. 

“I was angry with your mother,” Javert confessed. “I felt that she should have been in jail, not in a hospital. I was bitter that your Papa had taken her side and over-ridden my authority.” He felt embarrassed to admit these things out loud, but he had committed himself to this confession. This was necessary, this cleansing fire of truth, if he were ever to allow himself a place in Valjean and Cosette’s life. “I was also furious that your Papa had lied to me and that I was going to have to arrest the love of my life.”

The girl sat back in her chair, stunned. Her mouth was slack with shock. “Arrest—You were going to have to arrest Papa? Why?”

That was the question, wasn’t it?

Valjean pleaded with Javert, “I don’t think—“

Javert placed a reassuring hand over Valjean’s and squeezed. “It is not a story for tonight,” he said. 

Cosette did not want to let this go. “But why would Papa—“ 

“Cosette,” Valjean interrupted. “There is still much to tell you, much that I need for you to understand, but tonight is about Fantine -- your mother. To reveal my past would overshadow her story, and that is not fair to her. She dealt with too many willing to trivialize her in life; I refuse to do so in death.”

Cosette struggled for a moment with her curiosity, her frame shaking with the effort. She bit her lower lip, as if the temporary pain could give her some clarity. “I see,” she said.

“I will tell you someday, Cosette.” Valjean took his daughter’s hand, letting her feel his warmth. “But it will not be tonight.”

“You give me your word?” Cosette asked.

“Yes,” Valjean promised, “though you might not think much of it once my story is done.”

Cosette squeezed his hand in reassurance. Any fool could see that she adored this man, that she held him in such high esteem that it trumped even blood. How Valjean could doubt himself in the face of such paternal love? He couldn’t, not any longer.

“What happened next?” Cosette prompted, ready to get back to the night’s original purpose. 

Javert had the grace to look ashamed. “I took your Papa into custody and locked him away.”

Cosette lips turned into a delicate frown. “For how long?”

Valjean smiled, feeling a little proud of his accomplishment. “Only a few hours; I escaped and made my way to Montfermeil to make arrangements to procure you.”

“Is that when you rescued me?” Cosette asked.

“No,” Valjean admitted. “I was arrested again a few days later. It would be months before I could take you from the Thenardiers.”

“But how did you get out?” Cosette asked. “Were you pardoned?”

Once again, Valjean found himself looking to Javert for an acceptable answer. The younger man was equally befuddled by the task at hand. “I—“ Javert turned his attention back to Cosette. “Think it’s getting late,” he finished. 

Cosette raised an eyebrow, but did not question him. “I agree,” she said. “You and Papa must be exhausted after such a long day.” She started gathering the remains of dinner as Inspector Javert took to his feet.

“I believe I should retire and let my hosts do the same,” he said. Javert bowed his head to the lady of the house and made to leave when a familiar hand grasped at his arm. 

It was Valjean, shaking his head. “Don’t go yet, Javert.”

“But, I—“

“Please Inspector,” Cosette said. “We couldn’t think of sending you out at this hour. You can spend the night here.” 

Javert was moved by their kindness, but felt obligated to leave. “I cannot Mademoiselle, after what I did to your mother—“

Cosette set down the dishes on the counter with a loud clatter. “Inspector Javert, from what you and Papa said my mother was already ill and had survived a terrible ordeal. To say that shock from a single argument would kill her is frankly insulting,” she said.

Javert felt lost for words. “I apologize—“ 

Cosette ignored his discomfort. “You were unkind to my mother; you were not gentle nor compassionate towards her-- but you did not place her in that terrible situation.” She turned her gaze to Valjean. “And I don’t believe you did either, not intentionally. As the Inspector said, you tried to help her when you discovered she had been turned out.” 

The young woman leaned against the cabinetry, her face a rolling sea of emotions. “She did so much for me; she suffered so much,” Cosette whispered. “The Thenardiers, how could they—“ Tears formed at the corners of her eyes, blurring her vision. 

Valjean held his tongue, there was nothing that could be said that could console her, nothing to ease her state of mind. Cosette was no longer just his little girl, but a woman coming to terms with her own past.

Cosette knew that she didn’t have the whole story; that there were things that her Papa and the Inspector couldn’t possibly know. This woman, this Fantine that she could not remember was her mother. This woman had lived, had suffered, had died because she had loved the wrong man. All the while, she tried to provide a life for her little girl, tried to keep her safe, only to be exploited by terrible people. Could anything have prevented Fantine’s fate? 

“I have a question, M. Inspector,” Cosette said, her voice choked.

“I’ll try to answer it,” Javert said.

“Would things have been different if she could have mated with my father?” Cosette asked.

Javert wondered why she would ask this question of him, but not her Papa. He tried to recall what he knew of marriage laws and biology. “Yes: she would have had more legal recourse; he would not have been able to marry anyone else,” Javert answered. “He would have been forced to acknowledge you and Fantine.”

Cosette nodded, she had been expecting such an answer. Now came what she truly wanted to know. “Would she have been happier?”

The pause that Javert took before giving his response told Cosette everything. In that brief moment, Javert’s thoughts wandered to the man who sat next to him at the table, the one who had taken in an orphaned child; he thought of the man who said he would care for her, only to extort money from her mother; and he thought of the man who wrote him letters and sent money, a man Javert had never met. 

“She would have been more fortunate,” Javert said, trying to be diplomatic.

“But not happier?” Cosette pressed. 

Javert sighed. “I don’t think that a man capable of abandoning your mother the way he did would have been a good father to you or even a good man to Fantine. You would have had material comforts but I can’t say that he would have treated you with a fraction of the love you’ve received from your Papa.”

He could feel Valjean beaming with pride next to him, but could take no credit for it. Javert had only been speaking the truth as he saw it, not seeking to flatter his mate. 

“Thank you,” Cosette said, drying her eyes. 

Javert was not sure what compelled him, if it was empathy, kindness or simply gratitude that made the next words come out of his mouth: “I went to your mother’s funeral.”

Valjean startled in surprise. “You did?”

“Yes. I’m afraid it was not well-attended,” Javert said.

Cosette looked at Javert with interest. “I thought you didn’t like my mother?”

“I didn’t,” Javert said, he would not lie to his host of that point. “I went because your Papa had escaped from jail and I thought I might find him there.”

“That was the reason I didn’t come,” Valjean said.

Javert had ventured the guess but it still was gratifying that he was correct. “It was a simple ceremony, and the nuns that nursed your mother had nothing but kind words for her.”

“Do you know where she is buried?” Cosette asked.

“Yes,” Javert replied. “It is unmarked but I could find it again.” 

Cosette stared at her hands. “I would like to go someday, to tell her goodbye and to thank her.”

The offer was made before Javert realized what he was doing. “I can take you there. It isn’t much, just a patch of dirt with some rocks.”

The girl’s eyes were so full of hope that Javert felt his heart melting. “Would you?” Cosette asked.

“I would like to go as well,” Valjean said. “To pay my respects.” 

It was not that Javert was not willing to escort them to Fantine’s final resting place, but he did not want to give the impression that they would be leaving right away. “I don’t know when we could make such a journey. I have my work--” 

Cosette was not an impatient young woman. She knew that Javert’s offer was genuine, but she also had her own priorities. “I wouldn’t wish to go until Marius is well.”

With the matter temporarily settled, Cosette bade her Papa and the Inspector goodnight. She left them to discuss sleeping arrangements alone. On another occasion, her more romantic tendencies would have made her curious about what was happening behind closed doors but her thoughts were preoccupied. 

Instead of worrying about lovers’ reconciliation she wondered at the unfairness of Fantine’s dismissal, of how difficult it must be for a woman with children to get work. Cosette had gone out with her Papa on his missions of charity, had seen some of the poor and the wretched that their money had helped, but she wondered if there was more that could be done.

Fantine’s story stirred something deep with Cosette’s soul; it was a strange anger and ferocity she had never experienced before. She had felt the simple joy of helping others, the pity that accompanied seeing a child that was far too thin, but this was something new, something that made her heart ache. Her eyes stung with unshed tears.

She wondered if Marius had felt something similar when he had decided to pursue law as a profession; she wondered if he would share her newfound passion and interest. Cosette yearned for him, for the boy with the sweet smile and the terrible poetry. She wanted to hold him in her arms and to talk with him once more. Together they would plan for a shared future and, perhaps, find a way to make the world better for the children of tomorrow. 

She fell asleep to dreams of Marius and a woman she had never known.


End file.
